


The One That Saves Me

by zayngasm



Series: Who We Are and Where We're Going [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anorexia, Boys Being Idiots, Boys Kissing, Cheesy, Drama, Eating Disorders, F/M, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jealousy, Kissing, Lilo friendship, Lots of kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Physical Abuse, Rape, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush, ot5 feels, zarry friendship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayngasm/pseuds/zayngasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a moment of silence but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Harry is oddly reassured just by the fact that Louis is on the other side of the phone. Everything still feels unbearable, but him, being there, it’s enough for now.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s never really come to terms with what goes on in his house when his mother isn’t home, has never admitted even to himself that this, this thing that’s happening to him, is real. Nearly nine years of sexual and physical abuse and he’s still trying to learn to grunt and bear it. He finds ways of coping, whether it be slicing his wrists or throwing up his dinner just because he needs control of <i>something</i>.</p><p>On the outside, he's a smiling, cheeky sixteen-year-old. On the inside though, Harry's broken, damaged goods tittering on the edge of hopelessness. </p><p>And then he meets Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics belong to hawk nelson - everything you ever wanted

#  **Part One**

* * *

_I tried to be perfect, tried to be honest_  
_Tried to be everything that you ever wanted_  
_I tried to be stronger, tried to be smarter_  
_Tried to be everything_

* * *

 

He’s five-years-old when his father walks out, yelling and kicking the end table before slamming the door shut behind him. Harry may only be five, but he remembers the moments leading up to his father's departure: the arguing and fighting; furniture being knocked over; his mother crying;  _Gemma_ crying; nights spent hidden in Gemma's bed with his fingers pressed to his ears to block out the noise. He doesn’t quite understand that his dad isn’t coming back, but when it finally hits him, when his mum sits him down and explains it all to him, he’s surprised to find he can’t exactly cry along with them.

His mum dates a little over the years, but this is just another thing Harry doesn’t really follow, doesn’t get. Why would she want another one of _him_ , another guy to knock over furniture, to yell at her when she burns dinner?

Gemma laughs, throwing back her head and acting like she’s _so_ much older than him (even though the age gap between them is only four years) and says, ruffling his hair, “This one will be better, I promise.”

 

 

Pete is nice.

He comes into their lives when Harry is just barely seven-years-old. The man has black hair and brown eyes and, after holding out his large hand for Harry to shake, he hands him a new computer game to add to his collection. Harry’s green eyes go wide and he runs off to his room to try it out without so much as a thank you.

His mum gets on to him later, but Pete just laughs and waves it off. His eyes sparkle and Anne seems happier than she has been in a long time. He stays for dinner, joking with Gemma and holding Anne's hand over the table, then helping clean up the dishes without having to be asked. (Harry watches from the hallway as Pete turns the water spray on her momentarily, causing her to let out a squeal; the noise is so different from what he’s used to, so different from the screams of arguments he’s grown up hearing.)

Harry thinks, idly, that Gemma was right; Pete _is_ better.

 

 

But then, suddenly somehow, he's _not_ better.

It turns out Harry was wrong. _Gemma_ was wrong. They were all wrong about everything. Pete is not nice. Especially when he's had a few beers.

Harry, unfortunately, learns this the hard way.

 

 

One night, just a couple months after having been introduced to the man, Anne gets Pete to babysit. Gemma is spending the night at a friend’s and Anne has to work the late shift. Pete is quick to say yes, because of course he is the _perfect_ boyfriend, perfect future step-father of the seven-year-old.

Harry is pretty excited himself. No mum for a whole evening. Just the guys. They can play video games and pig out and he won’t get yelled at if he forgets to wash his hands before supper.

Things go smoothly . . . for approximately thirty minutes. Pete orders pizza for them and then pops open a beer he brought with him. “Put these in the fridge,” he tells Harry, holding out two six packs. Harry looks at him wearily before taking one, thinking he probably won’t be able to carry both; he’s small for his age, weak and clumsy, and the bottles are made of heavy glass. Pete just snorts and stuffs the other under Harry’s arm, not giving him a choice.

On his way to the kitchen Pete smacks Harry lightly on the bum. It's so quick that Harry thinks he might've imagined it, or that maybe it was an accident. The only thing that tells him it actually happened is Pete's light laughter.

Still, he ignores it and keeps walking.

He struggles under the awkward hold of the beers but makes it into the kitchen before one of the bottles slides out of the feeble carton. It crashes against the floor and he hurries to set the two cartons down before the rest slide out as well. He barely has time to turn around before Pete is in the kitchen, eyes wild with anger.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin', boy?”

Harry has never seen this side of Pete before. Pete has always been nice and kind, giving him candy or toys when he comes to visit. The way he raises his voice brings back vivid memories of his own father, and instinctively Harry takes a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters out. “It was only one. It was an accident. I’ll clean it up.” This usually works on his mother. As long as he promises to clean up after himself, she doesn’t really get angry at him for accidentally making a mess.

Any hope he has of Pete forgiving him disintegrates when the large man takes a step closer to him, raising his hand to slap across Harry's face.

Harry doesn’t make a sound at first. His eyes go wide and start watering, and his mouth drops open before he makes a choked, surprised yelp. Even his father had never hit him, and his mother sure doesn't smack him. She never even lays a hand on him unless it’s in a comforting manner, like to hug him or hold his hand when he was younger and needed to cross the street. Sometimes Gemma playful pushes him and there was the time that kid in class had given him a black eye, but that had been different. (Gemma had knocked the kid on his arse later.)

Pete is grinning. He points to the broken glass and puddle of beer on the kitchen floor. “Clean it up. Now.”

The curly headed little boy nods and heads further into the kitchen to get a washcloth, but Pete’s hands on his shoulder, making Harry stiffen, stop him.

“No. You can use your hands.”

Harry stares up at him with wide eyes. “Mum told me to never touch broken glass.”

“Well your mum’s not here, is she?” Pete asks and he points at the broken bottle fragments again. “Pick. Them. Up.”

He hesitantly gets down on his hands and knees and starts picking up the shards of glass. Thankfully most of them are large, but Harry’s hands are shaking so much he cuts himself a couple times. For some reason he thinks it would be better if he didn't cry out, so he bites down on his lip to keep from making a noise. Once he has cleared away all the glass he looks up at Pete expectantly.

“Now drink it.”

Okay, now he's really confused. “Wh-what?”

“Drink it,” Pete repeats, more firmly. Harry looks from him, to the spilled beer on the floor and back again.

“But. . .”

“Don’t argue with me!”

Harry nods and gets down on his knees again, lapping up the beer like a dog. The smell is awful, but the taste is ten times worse. It feels warm and heavy in his mouth and kind of burns when he swallows. He can taste the faint linoleum of the kitchen tile each time he sticks his tongue out to get more. His hands, pressed against the floor, sting where he's cut himself and there are drops of blood gathering around him, mixing in with the beer.

Pete’s hand is suddenly on his head, pushing him down till his nose brushes the floor, telling him to slurp it up. He’s gotten beer up his nose - pretty sure part of it's his own blood - and he's sputtering a bit, but finally the majority of it is gone.

He sits up, his eyes red rimmed from holding back tears, and his lips raw from being bitten down on. His nose is running, his fingers are bleeding even more, and his face hurts. He hopes Pete will leave him alone for the rest of the night so he can go hide in his bedroom until his mum gets home.

Pete wraps his large fingers around Harry’s tiny wrist, pressing until the boy is sure he’ll see bruises there, and pulls him up off the floor and to his feet. This time he can't hold back the slight sob, but Pete just grins, like that was what he was waiting for.

“You know,” he says casually, “I’m going to marry your mum.” He leans in close enough Harry can smell the alcohol on the older man’s breath. “I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” Then he flings Harry away from him and stalks out of the kitchen.

Harry falls to the floor, landing on his bum. He presses his lips together to keep from crying out and rubs at his now red wrist. He can faintly hear the sound of the football game on the telly. It takes him quite a few minutes to compose himself and get up from the ground. He keeps low and quiet, and hurries past Pete and up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he collapses on his bed, wondering what he’s going to tell his mum when she gets home.

By the time she does get home though, he is already asleep, passed out from exhaustion and crying so hard. When he wakes up in the morning, the memory is faint, in the back of his mind, almost like he had dreamt it. If it wasn’t for the sour taste of beer in his mouth, his still-sore cheek, the bruises on his wrist and cuts on his fingers, he’s sure he would have thought it was all just a dream; that it had never happened.

When he goes down to breakfast and his mum sees the spider-man band aids he has stuck around his bleeding fingers, she asks him about it. For a moment he thinks about telling her the truth, but then he finds himself saying, “I was playing outside and cut myself.”

She smiles fondly and nods her head. “Be more careful, you.” She bends down and presses a gentle kiss to each of his bandaged fingers.

He doesn’t know why he doesn't tell her the truth. Later he thinks of all the possibilities: how she probably wouldn’t have believed him, how Pete would probably just deny everything, or maybe she’d think he deserved it, that he had spilled Pete’s beers so he deserved to be punished.

 

That feeling sticks with him. As the days and the years pass, Harry can’t shake the feeling that he has done something wrong, that he deserves every bad thing that ever happens to him.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

The abuse varies and worsens throughout the years. At first it’s little things – little compared to what Pete has in store at least. He’ll boss Harry and smack him around a bit when he babysits. It gets to the point that, even when Pete and his mum are both around, Harry finds himself automatically doing things for Pete without having to be told. He’ll get him a beer from the fridge; he turns the telly to whatever sports game is on that day (even when _his_ favorite shows are on); he basically _cleans up_ after his mum’s boyfriend.

(It eventually carries on to the other people in his life: his mum tells him to go take a bath so he goes and takes a bath without hesitation; Gemma jokingly tells him to change the channel and he obeys; kids at school bully him around and he goes along with it every time without fail, without hesitation, constantly avoiding confrontation.)

It’s okay for a while because Pete doesn’t babysit that often. But then, after only seven months of dating, Anne announce their engagement, and Harry gets this sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn’t know how to make go away.

Gemma gets all excited and starts clapping, and his mum cries, and Harry kind of feels like crying too but for an entirely different reason.

They throw a party and the night of, Pete takes him aside, muttering something to Anne about having a ‘man to man talk.’ She smiles all cheery like and goes back to being the perfect host, showing off her engagement ring. Pete and him do not have a man-to-man talk though.

Pete wraps his hand around Harry’s wrists, like he has done so many times the younger boy practically has permanent bruises there.

“We’re going to be spending an awful lot of time together now,” he tells Harry, as if the boy hasn’t already thought this through, as if it isn’t the reason he has barely said anything that night, hasn’t been able to meet anyone's eyes, has almost locked himself in the bathroom a couple dozen times. He’s seven (almost eight now), but he isn’t stupid.

Pete squats down to Harry’s level and looks him straight in the eye. His voice goes low. “If you _ever_ tell anyone what goes on between us, I will make sure you never say another word again. Do you understand?”

Harry nods feebly.

“Great!” Pete’s voice changes instantly. He is all smiles and bright eyes, the man who gave him a computer came, and held Anne's hand on the table during dinner. He ruffles Harry’s hair and heads off to find his new fiancee.

Harry, on the other hand, actually _does_ lock himself in the bathroom.

It's the first time he ever makes himself throw up.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

After the wedding they move to a new house in a new neighborhood, and everything just kind of goes downhill. It isn’t like Pete can harass Harry twenty-four-seven because his mum is home most of the time, and even when his mum is gone, usually Gemma is there so they aren’t really _alone_ that often. But there is this overwhelming sense of fear in the air which is almost just as bad, maybe even worse. A sense of impending doom, like if he messes up, if he does anything wrong, everything will snap and he’ll break and Pete’s hand will be flying towards him in punishment.

It wouldn’t matter if Pete did leave him alone, anyway; everything around him starts crumbling, too, and he doesn’t know if it’s a result of the constant state of fear he lives in, or some kind of genetic makeup. Maybe he deserves all this, maybe his life was meant to be a disaster, with or without Pete.

They moved during the school year and to a completely different area, so Harry is with a whole bunch of other eight-year-old's he doesn’t know, in a primary school he’s unfamiliar with. He automatically starts shying away from everyone, unwilling to make friends, worried they'll be mean to him, won't like him, or that they'll eventually ask him about his family, about the cuts and bruises he's always covered in. And what is he supposed to say then? What if they want to come home and visit? What if Pete doesn’t approve? What if they find out? _What if_ everyone _finds out?_

Harry does eventually start to make some friends, friends who are just as quiet as he is, or are unbothered by how often he keeps to himself. He never invites them over and they never extend the same invitation to him. Why would they? It only makes sense; they don’t even really want to be his friends in the first place. They just put up with him like everyone else does.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

When he is eleven-years-old Gemma goes on a school trip for the weekend. His mum is off at work, leaving Harry alone with Pete for the first time in a couple weeks. He tries to get ready for a night of getting his step-dad beers, cigarettes, drinking with him, smoking with him, smacks and punches in places his mum will never see or will blame on him being so accident prone. It's not really something someone can ever prepare for, though, no matter how often it happens.

He stays in his bedroom as long as he can, curled up under his duvet reading a book for school. Pete comes in nearly an hour after Harry’s mum has left. He sits down on the edge of the bed and Harry marks his page and sets the book aside.

“What’re you doing?” Pete asks. His words are a little slurred; he’s already had a few beers.

Harry shrugs. “School work.”

“Turn over.”

The young boy blinks a couple times, confused. “Turn . . . ? What?”

“I said, turn over.”

Slowly, Harry turns over onto his belly, tilting his head so he can watch Pete and see what he’s doing. Pete pulls the duvet off of the bed and reaches for Harry’s pajama bottoms. The curly haired boy instantly freezes, possibilities going through his mind, but thinking _definitely not, he couldn’t be_. The older man pulls Harry’s bottoms and briefs down to his ankles and swats at his behind. Harry clenches his teeth together.

“You’re lucky your mum’s home most of the time,” Pete says. _I know_ , Harry thinks, _I_ know. “Been wanting to do this for some time now.”

 _Do what exactly?_ Harry doesn’t know. But then, after a couple more smacks at his arse, Pete is pulling him apart none too gently. A couple seconds later Harry feels pressure and then – oh, no that definitely isn’t what he thinks it is. He turns his head a little and yep, Pete has his pants undone and is rubbing his prick over Harry’s hole before slamming into him suddenly without warning.

Harry can’t hold back the cry he makes. It feels like every inch of him is on fire. Trying to get away, he attempts to scoot up the bed, but Pete just holds him in place. Harry buries his face in his pillow and sobs while Pete rams into him repeatedly, telling him to shut up and take it, that he knows he likes it.

Pete continues to slap him as he sinks further into him, and Harry knows he’ll have hand prints covering his body. When Pete grabs onto his hips to control his movements, Harry is pretty sure he will have bruises there too.

It doesn’t take long thankfully. Pete is filling him up and pulling out, and Harry cries out again at the stinging it causes. His bum is sore. He won’t be able to walk for a week, he’s sure.

He can feel Pete’s spunk leaking out of him, sliding down his leg. That's not the worst part, though. Neither is the dark chuckle Pete makes when he pushes a finger back inside momentarily, pressing against him painfully.

The worst part is what Pete whispers in his ear before he gets up and leaves, hollering for Harry to be downstairs in five minutes. The words echo back and forth in his head over and over and over again.

_Now nobody can love you._

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Harry starts looking for some way to deal with everything; it’s all building up inside him, and he needs to let it out somehow. He screams into his pillow, he cries, he kicks and punches walls and his furniture, but at the end of the day, he’s still hurt and he doesn’t know what to do to make it all go away.

When they're home alone, Pete makes Harry skip meals, won't let him eat unless he's "earned it." One day at school, when Harry is feeling particularly low, he doesn't eat lunch. It's not really a conscious decision, he's just not in the mood to eat anything. It happens again a few more times until it's stuck with him. Skipping meals becomes a form of punishment. And that’s what he needs to do, right? To punish himself. Because whatever it is, whatever is going on, it’s his fault. At the end of the day it is his entire fault. And maybe if he gets better at punishing himself, Pete won't have to.

When he drops a few pounds he starts to feel a little better. If he has to eat dinner, he just makes himself throw it up. He slowly gets thinner, wrapping himself up in jumpers year round and wishing away his baby fat.

But it still isn’t enough. He’ll skip a meal or throw up his dinner, but he still ends up crying on the bathroom floor, ashamed and hating himself. Wishing he was thinner, smarter, just overall _better_.

That is, perhaps, how he finds himself holding a razor blade to his wrist one Saturday night. He slides it across the skin experimentally, bites his lip because _fuck that hurts_ , watches the blood drip down his arm, and thinks _oh_.

And everything kind of clicks into place after that.

 

 

When Pete sees the cuts he just laughs, presses down on them, and says, “Good boy. That’s what you get for being a little fuck-up.”

And Harry knows he’s right. That's _exactly_ what he deserves.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

 

Gemma is seated across from him, blinking her long mascara-covered eyelashes a couple times before looking away, down at the food on her plate. She’s been away at school for a few years now and is home for the long weekend. Something in the way that she's been watching him ( _watching_ , not staring exactly, but definitely watching) looks suspicious and concerned. Harry doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, definitely wants to stay away from _that_ topic, but his thoughts take him there anyway. For a few minutes he freaks a little, wondering if she knows something.

She couldn’t though, there’s no way. He’s just being paranoid.

He takes a small bite of his green beans, only half-listening to what his mum and Pete are going on about – something about Pete’s job and an annoying client. _Well poor, poor you_ , Harry wants to say.

Gemma looks up again and their eyes met for a second time. Both sets are the same shade of green, but Harry’s pretty sure hers are brighter. She’s tired, he can tell, but there’s a light in her eyes that is missing from his. Maybe it was there once upon a time or maybe he never had it, he doesn’t know.

“I have to talk to you,” she then says and every muscle in his body tightens in fear.

 _What did I do this time?_ is his first thought, and then _Oh God what if she knows? Tried so hard to be good. So quiet._ He has so many secrets though. How is he supposed to hide them all?

She smiles though and he relaxes a little bit – as much as he can, anyway. “I have a surprise, actually,” she continues. “Kind of an early birthday present.”

Harry raises an eyebrow in curiosity. His sixteenth birthday is still a few weeks off. He wonders why she wants to give him his present now when they both know she’ll be back to celebrate in a couple weeks.

 _Or maybe she’s not coming_ , he thinks. Is this her way of saying she’ll be too busy that weekend or unwilling to make the trip?

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I was going to wait, but. . .” She shrugs, her voice trailing off.

He can feel Pete’s eyes on him and instinctively, he pulls on the sleeve of his jumper till it covers more of his slightly exposed wrist. Gemma’s eyes follow the movement, but she says nothing. _Probably just thinks he's cold_. It’s snowing outside; he’s allowed to be a little chilly. It’s easier now that it's winter and he has a legitimate excuse to wear long sleeves. His mum had been getting a bit worried when it would be seventy plus degrees outside and he’d be dressed in jumpers and jeans instead of shorts and t-shirts - or prowling around naked like he had when he was younger. Apparently something he’s famous for and can’t live down.

“So what is it?” Harry finally asks, coming to the conclusion that she either isn’t going to tell him or is just trying to wind him up and wait till the last second.

He puts down his fork, no longer hungry. Hell, he hadn’t been hungry much to begin with. He smiles at his mum though, hoping it conveys his appreciation for dinner.

Gemma looks down, but he can see her wide smile. She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear then gets up. She walks away from the table and a moment later he can hear her feet on the stairs, then down the hall, heading to her bedroom.

Confused and feeling a little impatient, Harry huffs out a breath, but gets up to clean off the table. He takes Pete’s empty plate without having to be asked – knowing he’ll just bitch about it or make some snide comment like _why don't you ever make yourself useful_ later when Harry’s mum isn’t around. He brings Pete back a beer too – again, not needing to be asked.

Pete doesn’t thank Harry, just pops off the top and takes a swig.

When Harry’s sitting down again, Gemma returns. She skips over to where he is, looking happier than he’s seen her in a long time – which is an accomplishment, really. Gemma has always been the happy one in the family. She works hard, yeah, takes school a lot more seriously than he does, but she’s got an air of freedom about her, always laid back like zombies could take over the world and she wouldn’t give a damn.

Of course it’s not that hard to be happy compared to Harry, but he tries, he really does.

“Close your eyes.”

He rolls them briefly, but does as instructed. She slips two pieces of paper into his outstretched hands. They’re harder than normal paper and rectangular, rather small in size. He opens his eyes, immediately becoming more confused because the slips of paper are blank.

She laughs and reaches out to flip them over. And _there_. He’s not sure he’s seeing right because there’s no way – no way on Earth or Hell or Heaven or Mars – that she scored _The Script_ tickets, not this late. The concert is a week away for crying out loud.

Also, how long exactly was she going to wait to tell him?

Harry blinks a couple times, trying to clear his already perfect vision. He looks up at his older sister in awe. “Are you shitting – I mean, sorry mum – are you kidding me?” His voice is quiet, but he’s pretty sure his tone expresses how enthusiastic he is.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Curly Sue, they’re real. Don’t ask me how I got them though.” She winks and wiggles her eyebrows.

“Hopefully nothing illegal,” his mum jokes – she’s leaning over his shoulder, trying to get a better look. “Well that should be fun! I know how much you love them.” They're only his _favorite band ever_.

Gemma nods quickly, now turning to look at their mother. “I was thinking he could come spend the weekend with me. You know my roommate’s never there so it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d have a bed and everything.” She then looks down at Harry expectantly, like he could actually say anything other than yes.

He jumps up. “Of course!” He wraps her in a quick hug, a little surprised to find that he’s almost taller than her now. She practically tackled him when she walked through the door an hour ago, so he hadn’t really had a chance to notice how much he had grown since the last time he’d seen her.

She groans. “You’re getting so big, Curly,” she says, her thoughts on the same track as his.

Harry just smirks a little, doesn’t say anything, and pulls away from her to look down at the tickets again. “Thanks a bunch, Gem.”

She just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. _It is_ , he wants to tell her, _it’s a huge fucking deal_. He can’t remember the last time he was out of the house for longer than the usual eight hours for school.

Harry glances around, suddenly remembering Pete. He’s got a hard look on his face, contemplative and frowning. He takes a swig of his beer, leans back in his seat and crosses his arms.

 _He’s going to say no. He_ can’t _say no._

Pete says nothing.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Harry didn’t eat much, but he can still feel the weight of his dinner pressing against his stomach. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. So when everyone’s distracted he sneaks into the bathroom between his and Gemma’s room. He turns on the shower and gets down on his knees in front of the porcelain toilet.

He just sits there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

When his breathing is low and steady he lifts up the seat, leans forward, and sticks two of his fingers down the back of his throat.

The first time he did this he had to move his fingers around a bunch, use three instead of two, and push them way back until practically his entire fist was in his mouth. He had been impatient, too, and crying – full of guilt for what he was about to do – so when he didn’t throw up right away (because _of course_ he had to be gifted with zero gag reflexes) he had gotten angry and started cursing himself and the toilet – as if it was its fault.

Now though, it’s like his body knows exactly what he wants and is accustom to doing it. This makes him feel _guiltier_ of course – a part of this ritual that doesn’t ever go away – but he ignores it.

It isn’t long before the contents of his stomach are in the toilet, tinged with bright red blood.

  
His stomach hurts, the back of his throat is raw, and his fingers are gross, but he’s empty, and that’s what he needs: to feel as empty as he knows he is.


	2. Stud From 'The Script' Concert

The next week goes by way too slowly for Harry. It’s like he can _taste_ the freedom staying with his sister will bring. He’s sure the wait would have been easier for him if she had stuck around, but she’d said her goodbyes on Sunday evening before heading back to Uni, having a couple classes of J-term left.

Finally Friday comes and, after he gets home from school, he packs a bag for the weekend. He’s so close to just jumping around his room like a little girl or screaming into his pillow - seriously _The Script_ \- but instead forces himself to _calm the fuck down; it’s just a weekend, just a concert_.

Just when he thinks he’s going to be able to slip away accident free, his mum tells him she’s going to go to the store and will pick up a few snacks for him. Harry offers to go with her. When she assures him it’s going to be a short, boring trip he then tries to promise he doesn’t really need anything and she can wait to go after he’s left, but she just waves him off, saying she won’t be gone long.

He decides to hide in his bedroom, but it’s a futile effort.

Pete comes in shortly after she’s left, not bothering to knock or shut the door behind him. Automatically Harry takes a step backwards, almost falling onto his recently made bed. His step-father just looks around, muttering something under his breath, before his eyes land on Harry. “Excited?” he asks. His tone is completely flat.

Harry nods. _That’s all. He just wants to talk. He’s not even drunk._

“I’m sure it’ll be nice to get out of the house for a change.”

He doesn’t answer, thinks it might be some kind of trick, like he wants a reason to get angry, to push Harry around one last time before he leaves.

The silence between them lasts a few minutes at least and Harry starts to feel sweat forming on his forehead. He wants to say _I should get packing_ or _I need to take a shower_ but he already did both. He has no excuses.

He’s already given up hope when Pete closes the distance between them. He grabs Harry’s wrist, squeezing at the bruises and cuts he knows are hidden under the sleeve of his jumper. Harry fights back a wince.

“If you even _think_ about saying anything . . .” Pete’s voice trails off. He doesn’t need to finish, Harry already knows.

He nods his head. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Pete drops his wrist and takes a step backward. He looks like he wants to say something more, but just shakes his head and leaves.

Harry lets out the breath he’d been holding in and collapse backwards onto his bed, covering his face with his hands and trying not to burst into tears.

 

When he gets off the train in London and finds Gemma waiting for him on the platform, he collapses into her embrace. It feels like everything he’s been bottling up is on the edge, bursting to be released.

Gemma doesn’t laugh and say _it’s only been a week_ like he half-expects her to. Instead she just cards a hand through his hair and tightens her grip around him as if to say _I know, I understand, I’m right here_.

It’s enough to hold him together for now.

~*~*~*~*~

The next morning (three minutes past five according to Gemma’s roommate’s neon green clock with obnoxiously bright numbers) he wakes up to sound of the bathroom door opening and hitting the wall, then his sister throwing up.

He’ll never admit it, but the first thought that shoots through his head is _holy shit, my sister makes herself throw up, too_ and then _or maybe she’s pregnant_.

She comes back a few minutes later, clutching her stomach and groaning. She looks pale, even in the dark. “I think I’m sick,” she says and Harry thinks _oh right, of course_.

He’s not at all concerned about the concert and their plans for that evening; he just wonders whether or not he can somehow score her some chicken noodle soup.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

There’s just enough light coming in through the purple curtains covering the window to let him see her shake her head. A few minutes later though, when he’s just about drifted back off to sleep, she says, “Actually, can you get me a glass of water?”

He nods and get up, heading for the door. She mutters something about how he can just use the bathroom sink, but he pretends to gag, making her chuckle, and instead heads down to the lounge. It’s got a little kitchen area with a microwave and a couple refrigerators. It’s empty except for a girl with a messy bun of brown hair making a cup of coffee. She smiles at Harry when he walks in, looks away, and then does a double take.

“I’m sorry, but no way in _hell_ are you old enough to go here. Are you one of the genius kids who graduated when they were like fourteen?”

He stops in his tracks and shifts a little uncomfortably. “I’m visiting my sister,” he explains, wondering if he’s going to get in trouble. He’s never been at ease around people exactly, especially strangers.

The girl has dark lines under her eyes; he can only guess she’s been up all night. To his relief, she smiles. She’s pretty – must be _really_ pretty when she’s actually _awake_ awake. “That’s sweet,” she says.

He starts searching through the cabinets till he finds the glasses. While he’s filling it up with water from the sink, he answers. “Yeah, but she’s come down with, like, the flu or something.” It comes out more of a question than a statement.

She stirs milk into her cup of coffee, looking down, but he can still see her small frown. “Well that sucks.”

Harry turns off the water and eyes the vending machine. They’ve got cup-a-noodle soups and he curses himself for not thinking to bring some money down with him so he could buy her one.

“Ruin all your plans, then, yeah?” the girl asks and he almost jumps out of his skin, thinking she had left already.

He starts to nod, but then shrugs instead. “Well, I mean, we were going to go to a concert, but it’s okay.”

“Oh yeah? What concert?”

“The Script.”

Her eyes widen a little. “No shit? I’m jealous.” She picks up her steaming cup and heads for the exit. “Have fun taking care of your sister.”

He nods and follows her out after a minute, heading for the stairs.

When he makes it back to the room Gemma’s still awake but just barely. He sets the cup on the table beside her bed, just within her reach. She murmurs a _thank you_ and takes a sip while he starts going through his bag for some money. There are a couple of notes and a message with _I’ll miss you_ from his mum tucked in with his converse. He sticks the piece of paper into the pocket of his folded up jeans and sets the money down on the table, making a mental reminder to buy Gemma some soup later when they’re both more fully awake and also to text his mum and let her know she’s missed as well.

~*~*~*~*~

“Shut _up_ , Harry. I’m not going to let you skip the concert just cause I’m sick.” Gemma rolls her eyes like it’s the most ridiculous idea he’s ever had. Which it isn’t – he should remind her of the time he tried to jump into the pool from the roof and ended up breaking his wrist. That was definitely more stupid.

He frowns. “But you need someone to take care of you.”

Gemma's sprawled out on her bed, her face mostly hidden by her pillow. Her blankets are tucked neatly around her. Harry stands at the foot of the bed, shuffling his feet awkwardly, and crossing and uncrossing his arms.

“I can take care of myself,” she insists, her voice muffled. “Now go get ready! You smell.” He pouts a little instead of obeying, dropping back onto the spare bed, and she throws her pillow at him, hitting him in the chest. “Stop it! You look like I just stole your guitar and held it for ransom or something.”

Harry doesn’t stop frowning, but he does get up and head for the bathroom. After knocking and making sure it’s unoccupied, he takes a shower, spending extra time on his hair because he’s pretty sure he needs to look extra presentable for this concert. Like somehow it’s going to change his life or something.

When he’s done and dressed, his wallet and phone in his pocket, he presses a hand to Gemma's forehead – notes that she’s not burning up as much as she was earlier – then heads out the door.

It’s not his first time in London so he doesn’t get lost. He does almost turn around a couple times though, thinking he’s not going to have much fun without his sister, but it’s _The Script_. How can he turn that down?

Besides, Gemma would probably just throw something at him again and maybe lock the door so he couldn’t get inside the room.

He feels awfully awkward standing there in the queue, alone while everyone else is obviously _not_ alone and are all chatting it up super excited-like. Some of them are wearing shirts with the faces of the band members on them, others are carrying signs. But everywhere he looks, they’re huddled together in groups of twos, threes, _fours, fives, sixes_. He slips inside though, finds his seat, and shortly later the opening act comes out, the music starts, and he stops caring that he's by himself.

 

During intermission, the short break between the opening band and The Script, Harry slips out to find the loo. After successfully finding and using the bathroom, he starts washing his hands quickly, singing _The Man Who Can’t Be Moved_ under his breath and hoping he doesn’t miss the start of the concert.

He’s not really paying attention to anything around him, so really it’s no surprise that he practically jumps a foot in the air when a voice near him says, “That’s my favorite song!”

He turns to look around; there are a few other guys in the bathroom, but most of them are too distracted or too far away to have been the one speaking to him. He turns to his other side and sees another lad washing his hands. All he can see, really, is bright blue eyes and how the guy’s brown hair kind of falls into them when he leans down to wash the soap off of his hands.

Harry wouldn’t say he’s _overly_ shy – cautious and reserved? Yes, and okay, he's never exactly been _comfortable_ around people, but he can usually exchange a few words with strangers like the girl back at Gemma's school. He’s not used to people striking up conversation in the bathroom of all places though (and this guy is really, _way_ too pretty for his own good) so all Harry manages to say is, “Mine, too" in a quiet voice he's not sure even carries.

This is apparently all the lad needs as an okay to keep talking, though. He starts rambling on about the first band – whom Harry hadn’t been familiar with until today – and how excited he is to see The Script and how excited he is to be there. He’s gesticulating wildly with his now dry hands, leaning up against the sink. Harry doesn’t say anything, too distracted and absorbed by the way the boy moves and talks. His shirt rides up a little, showing off a patch of skin, and Harry jerks his eyes away quickly.

Finally the lad says, “Nice talking to you –” even though Harry had only said two words “– have a good time!” and then he’s out the door.

It’s a couple minutes later before Harry realizes his hands are still under the faucet and his fingers have turned to wet prunes.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry wants to stay in the venue forever. He thinks he could probably happily live there with no problems whatsoever. Even working as a janitor or something, he wouldn’t mind. It would be alright. Everything about the place has this raw energy and power; the entire experience has been overwhelming. He’s always loved music of course, every aspect of it, but he hadn’t realized how much it all meant to him and how much he relied on it until he was standing there, eyes closed, listening to the music all around him, the people singing and dancing along.

He needs it, would probably die without it.

The crowd is thinning out though, everyone heading to their cars or whatever mode of transportation got them there. He doesn’t want to think about going home, facing his step-father again. He doesn’t think he can survive another year or so with Pete until university. It’s not like he has much of a choice though.

It’s probably the most difficult thing in his entire life, leaving the venue. He stays outside for a bit, breathing in the cool January air for as long as possible. Here he can pretend he’s just part of the crowd, another teenager, maybe spending the weekend in London with friends. He'd find them in the massive crowd and they would head back to their hotel room. Or maybe one of them would live here, go to school here. Either way, they'd listen to music on the way home, talk about the concert. Harry would tell them about the cute boy in the bathroom and they would laugh and tease him, wouldn't judge him, though, never. They would stay up late, talking bullshit, and Harry would laugh along, would give as good as he got. He would eat pizza without feeling guilty. He'd be happy.

Instead of going home to a life where everything he does is wrong, where he locks himself in his bathroom and hates himself for gaining weight, where he has to cut lines across his wrist just to remind himself he's still alive.

He pulls himself out of his fantasy world, remembering Gemma’s in her dorm, sick. He feels a little guilty for putting off going back as long as possible.

Just as he starts walking again, he bumps into someone he hadn’t noticed.

He takes a few steps back, opening his mouth to apologize, but the guy turns around, says, “Sorry!” and Harry realizes it’s the same caramel-haired boy from the bathroom. He must realize this at the same moment as Harry, because his blue eyes widen and he smiles. “Eh, you’re the lad from the toilets! How’d you enjoy the show?”

It takes Harry a minute of struggling to find the right adjective, but eventually he settles with a slightly lame, “It was amazing.”

The boy nods quickly. “I know, right? Blew my mind. So brilliant.” He must be high, ‘cause there is no way someone smiles _that_ much or that brightly. Harry’s having a difficult time looking at him actually. “You didn’t come alone, did you?” The boy looks around, almost like he’s waiting for someone to pop up behind Harry. There’s a look on his face Harry can’t decipher.

“Uh, well. I was supposed to come with my sister, but she got sick,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders a bit in a ‘what can you do’ sort of way.

He frowns. “That’s too bad.” He seems genuinely sorry, too, before he glances behind himself quickly, as if looking for someone. “I’m here with my mate, Liam.” He looks back at Harry. “He’s a great date and all, but I’m pretty sure he’s straight so the lack of snogging is a bit depressing.”

Harry’s not sure whether he’s serious or not, but he smiles a little anyways.

“I’m Louis,” he – _Louis_ – then says, sticking out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry stares at it a second before taking it. His fingers are warm and Harry can feel the tiniest hint of electricity as they brush against his. He wonders if Louis can feel the callouses on his fingertips, the way he flinches a little bit when they touch.

Realizing he hasn’t said anything, Harry quickly tells Louis his name and then the other boys asks, “You from around here?”

Harry shakes his head, tells him he’s from Cheshire. Louis says he’s from Yorkshire and they start talking for a little bit, just about the concert and their favorite parts, other favorite bands. Then Louis spots Liam . . . or who Harry can only guess is Liam, ‘cause who else would be waving their arms wildly at him?

“There he is.” Louis pauses, glancing back to where Liam’s waiting with a car. Harry can’t really make him out in the dark, but the other boy looks impatient. “You should text me sometime Harry from Cheshire,” Louis says when he’s turned back to look at him.

Harry almost says _why? Why would you want to talk to me?_ but thinks better of it. He nods his head slowly and starts retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, alright.”

They exchange phones and it takes Harry a second to put in his number because he’s so engrossed by the picture on the background of Louis’ phone. It’s a ridiculous image of Louis and some other boy with a Bieber haircut, their faces pressed together. Louis has his hair slicked back with gel, a white v-cut t-shirt and a leather jacket on, and he’s making a kissy face at the camera.

“There we go. I put my name under ‘stud from the script concert’ in case you forget who I am.” Harry doubts that would be possible, but he nods anyway and starts putting in his own number. He’s just barely aware of Louis taking a step forward to slip the phone back in Harry's pocket, his fingers brush against the skin exposed between Harry’s jumper and jeans.

Harry fumbles, having to reenter his number twice before he gets it right.

“Louis,” someone calls – Liam, the guy from the picture; he can see his hair and big brown eyes more clearly now – “let’s go!” Louis smiles at Harry, waves his hand in goodbye, then skips - literally _skips_ \- off to join the other lad.

Harry stands there for a few minutes, watching Louis go until he’s disappeared, wondering what the hell just happened.

~*~*~*~*~

When he gets back to Gemma’s dorm room, she’s sitting up in bed with a textbook propped up on her knees. She’s got more color in her face, but there’s an empty trash can on the floor next to her bed.

“How was it?” she asks, looking up at him over the glasses perched on her nose. Her voice is kind of strained, but she sounds a lot better than she had when he left, so she must only have that twenty-four hour bug.

He collapses onto the other bed at a loss for words.

She laughs like she understands, but he doubt she truly does.

“It was unbelievable,” he finally says.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” she muses.

He is too, and is about to say so, but then he thinks – would he have met Louis and gotten his phone number if she had been there? He feels guilty at the thought, but he can’t help but be a little glad she’d been too sick to come.

His phone vibrates and he doesn’t know whether he’s surprised or not to see a text from ‘stud from the script concert.’

_Just checking to make sure you weren’t kidnapped on your way home ;)_

Harry doesn’t reply right away, unsure of what to say. Gemma’s looking at him strangely, so he tries to school his face into something more neutral. She’s not fooled, of course, and he comes clean, telling her about Louis. Her face lights up, she sits up straighter, and for a few minutes they shoot possible witty responses back and forth. Finally Harry settles with texting something back along the lines of how he definitely _was_ kidnapped and he expects Louis to pay the ransom.

 _I’ll do no such thing_ , Louis replies a few seconds later. Apparently _he_ has no problems knowing what to say.

Harry doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Gemma says, “Awe, Curly Sue’s got a crush.” He snaps his mouth shut and throws a pillow at her.

He only feels mildly guilty when it hits her in the stomach, making her groan a little over exasperatingly.


	3. Enough For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for this chapter include self-harm and sexual abuse.

It’s only been a couple weeks since the concert, but Harry’s gotten used to his phone going off every few minutes. He has friends but never anyone he’s been able to talk to like _this_ , like him and Louis talk.

Louis is, well . . . different. He’s vibrant and carefree, reminding Harry of Gemma in a way. He’s got Harry near-laughing most of the time with his jokes and witty comebacks.

He quickly learns Louis is eighteen, finishing his last year of school, and when Harry asks about university Louis says _fuck that_ because, like Harry, he doesn’t really take school all that seriously. He doesn't like thinking about his future, about growing up and having to be responsible. And because he doesn’t want to leave his sisters, Harry concludes later on; Louis feels like they need him.

Louis is different than him in that way. Harry can’t wait to get out of the house; it’s the only thing that keeps him going some days, is why he's pushing so hard to finish school ahead of time. Louis, on the other hand, is extremely close to his family, can’t bear the thought of leaving them for too long. He talks about them all the time, sending Harry pictures and videos – so many that by now, Harry could probably tell the near-identical twins apart.

They don’t really talk about anything too serious, mostly just music, movies, their celebrity crushes. Harry complains about how boring his classes are and Louis sends him haiku’s about his weird classmates or close-up shots of Liam’s face (who is usually sitting next to him or across from him or just generally _near_ him). They have playful arguments and Louis claims he could kick Harry’s ass at FIFA. Considering he rarely ever plays, Louis is probably right, but Harry doesn’t tell him that.

Mostly Louis – over dramatically – complains about how far away Harry is and how he needs to come visit him and save him from his boring existence. Harry’s pretty sure it’s the other way around; Louis’s supposed to come save _him_ from _his_ boring (and slightly unhealthy) existence, but he doesn’t say anything.

One night, at three in the morning, Harry can’t sleep, so he sends a text to Louis to see if he’s awake. It’s one of the few times he’s ever texted Louis first, and he doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel nervous. Louis doesn’t reply, so he reasons he’s probably not awake. Why would he be? So Harry rolls over and tries to get comfortable.

But then the phone starts ringing.

No one ever calls him aside from him mother and sometimes Gemma, so it takes him a second to realize it’s actually _his_ phone ringing – even though it’s his Adele ringtone so who else's phone would it be? – and that Louis is calling him.

And then it takes him another second longer to actually answer because _Louis is calling him_.

When he finally does, his voice is a little squeaky and embarrassingly high. “Louis?”

“ _Why_ are you awake? You have school in the morning, young man.” Louis’ voice is lower than he remembers. He wonders if maybe that text he sent woke him up. _Oops._

Still, Harry finds himself relaxing a little. “I could ask you the same question.”

Louis fake-yawns. “I live above the law.”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Don’t actually think staying up late counts as living above the law.”

“Don’t be smart,” but he’s smiling, Harry can tell. “Why _are_ you awake?”

Moving a little to get more comfortable, he shrugs slightly even though Louis can't actually see him. “Dunno. Just can’t sleep.” He doesn’t tell him that this happens all the time, that the nights that he does actually get some sleep it’s only for a couple hours anyway and usually full of nightmares that make him regret falling asleep in the first place. Maybe his mind is just too hyperactive to shut down properly. Though, if that were the case, he’d expect Louis to have the same problem. They’ve only been texting for a little while, but he can already tell Louis isn’t the kind of person to sit still or focus on one conversation topic for too long.

“Should I sing you to sleep? Or maybe tell you a bedtime story?”

“Very tempting.” Harry doesn’t want to sleep though; he wants to talk to Louis, listen to his voice for as long as he can. “Maybe later.”

“Anytime,” Louis says, and even though Harry’s pretty sure he’s joking, it sounds like a promise.

“I’ll hold you to that, y’know.”

Louis chuckles, sounding much more awake now. “Sure, sure.”

As it typically does, their conversation turns to music. It always leads back to music, he feel like. He doesn’t mind. It’s something they’re both passionate about. Louis is big into musicals, was in his school’s production of Grease last year – that’s where the picture on his phone came from. Harry’s a horrible actor and doesn’t really like singing in public, so he could never do something like that, but he likes _watching_ musicals, so they spend a lot of time talking about those and Louis tries to get Harry to sing a little something something or asks him if he’s _really that awful_ of an actor or if he’s just saying that ‘cause he’s shy.

He’s not saying it because he’s shy, Harry assures, he really is that horrible of an actor. (Surprising considering the amount of things he's hiding from so many people; you'd think he'd be a _great_ actor - the best even.)

Even with as much as they’ve talked about, there’s still some things he hasn’t told Louis, so he’s surprised when he ends up confessing that he’s dabbled a bit in songwriting. Dabbled isn’t really the right word – he takes notebooks with him everywhere, scribbling down lyrics and random poetry lines that might not quite fit anywhere at first. Some of them he strums out on his guitar, making note of the chords next to the lyrics. He has a large collection of poetry books and he pours over them, engrossed, and always trying to figure out how to make his own writing better, how to make it flow together like the poets make theirs do.

“It’s nothing good,” he tells Louis, “just something I do sometimes.”

“I’m sure it’s brilliant. Send me something, no wait – better yet – _sing_ me something.” Even though he’s accepted that Harry’s not a good actor, he hasn’t accepted the ‘I don’t sing in public’ mantra Harry often repeats. “You can, like, serenade me over the phone, yeah.”

Harry chokes a little and shakes his head quickly, even though Louis can’t see him. “Sorry, don’t love you that much.” The words are out before he can stop them and he presses his lips together.

He can almost _hear_ Louis smiling. “You will though,” he answers casually, as if they’re talking about the weather or what they had for breakfast. “Love me that much, I mean,” he clarifies.

Harry just smiles and thinks, _yeah, I probably will._

It’s not until later, when he’s off the phone, that he remembers he doesn’t even believe in falling in love. He could love Louis like a friend though, yeah. That’s all he probably meant anyways.

~*~*~*~*~

“Oh my God,” Harry’s mother sobs. It’s not a real sob, but it’s probably pretty close. It’s mostly an overwhelmed dramatization though. “My baby boy is growing up.” She hugs his head to her chest  _again_ , and doesn’t let go for a few moments.

“Mum.” He sighs, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to glare at her. She’s making him sound so damn old.

She pulls back and smiles, running her fingers through his curls. “Well whatever you want to do today, honey, just let me know.”

He shrugs, leaning back against his bed frame. He’d been checking his email when his mum had come in, sobbing about how her ‘baby’ was _sixteen_ and _getting too old_.  “Just hanging out with you and Gemma s’fine.”

She frowns a little. “You’ve got the whole day off though. No school, no shift at the bakery.”

He nods. “Yeah, exactly; we can relax, do nothing.”

“Well okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “If that’s what you want. Pete’s getting off work early so he’ll only be gone for a couple hours.”

Harry forces himself to smile. “Yeah, okay. That’s great. We can watch movies all day.”

She smiles back. “That sounds perfect.”

Gemma arrives a couple hours later, shortly after breakfast (during which he eats everything his mother puts in front of him in an effort to make her happy. And also because he’s missed pigging out like a sixteen-year-old should. He’s pretty sure he gains a couple pounds just _looking_ at all the food, but he pretends not to care.) Gemma is all smiles and hugs him tightly before thrusting a package into his hands. He just looks at it for a couple minutes, wondering what it is, before his mum sighs, giving in, and says, “I suppose you can open them now instead of waiting.”

 _Good,_ he thinks, _Pete doesn’t need to be here._

Of course, that’s when Pete walks in, taking off his jacket and hanging it up in the closet.

“Just in time!” his mum says, going to kiss him. Something inside Harry twists uncomfortably and he looks away.

Gemma's gotten him another book of poetry to add to his collection. It’s vintage, has a worn out cover, and a couple signatures in the inside from a few of the writers.

He thanks her, giving her a quick side hug, and tells her how awesome it is. He wants to open it right then and there, start pouring over it, but his mum takes it away. She sets it beside him on the couch and hands him a much, _much_ larger box wrapped in ‘happy birthday!’ paper.

His jaw drops before he even opens it, taken aback by its size. When he finally does take off the wrapping and pulls off the lid, he’s rendered speechless.

“Mum,” he says, unshed tears in his eyes, “You didn’t have to.”

It’s a bass guitar, black and white vintage, something he’s wanted for ages and knows costs a great deal of money.

That’s one plus – the only plus, really – of having Pete as a step-dad. They don’t have to worry about money anymore. His mum doesn’t even have to work, only goes in for night shifts a couple times a week and then some day shifts when they really need her to.

That’s not the point though. Harry can’t wrap his mind around the fact that someone would spend this kind of money on him, even for a birthday.

He definitely doesn’t deserve it.

“I’m glad you like it, honey,” is all his mum says.

Harry’s eyes lock on Pete, just for a second. He’s smiling a little, but his arms are crossed over his chest. Pete might have Harry’s mum fooled, he might have Gemma fooled, but Harry knows better. Pete’s not at all happy with the present or any present Harry might get.

Pete knows he doesn’t deserve it, too.

~*~*~*~*~

He gets a text from Louis in the middle of their movie marathon. He asks Harry what he’s up to and so he tells the older boy he's being lazy, watching Disney movies with the family; he hadn’t told Louis it was his birthday but he does now. He’s a little surprised when, instead of texting him back, Louis calls him.

He excuses himself, insisting that _no mum, you don’t have to pause the movie, I’ve seen it a hundred times_ and heads up the stairs before answering.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday today?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a birthday. No big deal.”

“It is too a big deal! How old are you now?”

“Sixteen,” Harry answers.

Louis makes an ‘aweing’ sound. “You’re like a man now and everything!”

He groans. “Shut up. You sound like my mother.”

For a couple seconds all he can hear is Louis’ laughter. And then, “Well happy birthday, Hazza.”

It takes him a moment to respond. “Hazza?”

“I’m allowed to give you nicknames, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Now go back to your party. I don’t want to keep you.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that they’re _just_ watching movies – not much of a party – and how he’d much rather talk to Louis anyway.

“When’s your birthday?”

“December 24th. Christmas Eve, so you can’t forget the date . . . unless you don't celebrate Christmas. But even _then_ -”

Harry rolls his eyes and ignores the second half of his sentence. “I already missed it then.”

Louis chuckles. “I’ll have another one. And I expect loads of presents, your eternal servitude, that sorta thing.”

Harry laughs – actually _laughs_. It’s slightly choked sounding and muffled, but it’s a laugh all the same. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. And now it’s over something so _simple_ and not even really that funny. It surprises him, the laugh, so he just stands there, confused and silent for a couple seconds.

“That is the first time I have ever heard you laugh,” Louis remarks.

He tries to do it again, repeat the noise, but he can’t. It’s like something’s stuck in his throat. Louis can't realize how big of a deal this is; they’ve mostly been texting, so he wouldn’t be able to tell how often Harry laughed or not.

“I like it,” Louis says though, almost like he can read Harry’s mind. “You should do it more often.”

And Harry can’t help but think  _of course_ Louis would be the one to get him to laugh. He doesn't know if that scares or thrills him.

~*~*~*~*~

Their nighttime phone calls become a regular thing, with Harry eager to see if Louis can make him laugh again. After his birthday he keeps hanging on to everyone’s words, sometimes feeling like he _could_ laugh but shouldn’t, or _should_ laugh but can’t.

Sometimes him and Louis start talking at three in the morning, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. Sometimes they stay up all night on the phone, half-asleep and drowsy, until they have to get up and get ready for the day. Other times it’s a short conversation, just a rundown of their day.

It’s two o’clock in the morning and they’ve been talking since midnight. Harry’s laughing – for only the third time maybe – at something Louis has said, a little too loudly he’ll admit, when the door to his bedroom swings open suddenly and hits his wall loudly.

Harry jump a little in surprise and almost drops his phone.

“What the hell was that?” Louis asks, amusement still in his tone. "Sounded like someone was coming in to murder you or something." He laughs at his own joke, but Harry can't find the humor in it.

Not when it's so close to the truth.

Pete is standing in the doorway, looking at Harry like he’s the Goddamn antiChrist or something.

“I have to go,” is all Harry says, and hangs up before Louis can reply. “Sorry,” he continues, now addressing Pete. He buries deeper into his duvet. “I didn’t mean – I didn’t know.”

“Weren’t thinking of anyone but yourself,” Pete scoffs. “Typical.” He’s not bothering to be quiet. Harry’s mum’s at work. They’re all alone. It's so much easier now that she's gone most nights, not that he's always bothered. When Gemma lived with them the abuse and . . . well, _this_ , were more spread out throughout the weeks.

Harry shakes his head quickly. His mouth opens and closes, fumbling for words just out of reach, not knowing what to say, how to get out of this.

“It won’t happen again,” he tries to plead.

Pete slams the door shut behind him and walks to the edge of the bed. Harry pulls his legs up to his chest; tries to scoot as far away from his step-father as he can.

“Turn over,” Pete orders.

Harry hesitates, a rookie mistake really, and Pete’s hand is suddenly under the duvet, searching. It wraps around Harry’s ankle, pulling until the young boy is lying flat on his back. He throws off the covers. When he releases Harry’s ankle, he uses that same hand to suddenly make contact with Harry’s thigh, surely leaving an ugly red mark in its shape and causing Harry to wince.

“I said,” Pete says, slower this time, “ _turn over_.”

This time Harry obeys.

He’s not used to it, even with as long as it’s been going on. He doesn’t think it’s something anyone could _ever_ get used to. The fingers pulling at his sweatpants and briefs are definitely familiar, but not in a good or reassuring way; instead in a way that makes him squeeze his eyes shut, fighting against tears and wishing for this moment, the quick movements, to be over as soon as possible.

When he feels Pete push in – not bothering to prepare either of them in any way whatsoever – Harry digs his teeth into his lower lip, hard enough that he can taste blood. Pete grabs onto his hair, pulling till Harry’s crying out in pain and his head is being yanked backwards.

“You like it,” his step-father says, almost laughing, then mutters, “Fucking faggot.”

Harry tries to ignore the irony in that statement, and squeezes his eyes shut again. It’s not until his eyes open to the sound of his phone going off, and he sees he has a new text message from ‘stud from the script concert’ ‘cause he never bothered to change Louis’ name, that he lets himself break a little and feels tears sliding down his cheeks.

~*~*~*~*~

A phone call from Louis is what wakes Harry up the next morning. He had fallen asleep on his front, too sore to turn over, and he reaches out for his phone blindly.

“lo?” he says when he answers, his voice groggy and raw from crying all night.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing Louis asks. "There wasn't _actually_ a murderer in your bedroom last night was there? Though I guess you wouldn't have answered if there had been, unless maybe he -"

“No, no, yeah, I’m fine,” Harry answers quickly – maybe too quickly - interrupting him. “My step-dad just . . .” he pauses, thinking for a fraction of a second about telling Louis the truth before saying, “I guess I woke him up. He was a little upset, told me to go to bed. Sorry for hanging up like that.”

Louis sighs. “No it’s fine, don’t apologize.”

There’s a moment of silence but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Harry is oddly reassured just by the fact that Louis is _on the other side of the phone_. Everything still feels unbearable, but him, being there, it’s enough for now.

~*~*~*~*~

Later, when Harry’s found the courage to get up, he locks himself in the bathroom. He fumbles with one of the razor blades he keeps hidden in a box under his mattress, pressing it gently against his fingertips. A little harder and he could draw blood, but he doesn’t, not yet.

He shoves up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing fading bruises, thin white scars, and more recent reddish pink cuts that sting a little when he runs a finger over them.

Just like before when he sticks his fingers down his throat, he pauses; takes a moment to just _breathe_. Then he pushes the razor into his skin, sliding it across his wrist, and welcomes the immediate relief it brings.


	4. Extraordinary

“I think you should get a tumblr,” Louis says one day, completely out of the blue. They had been talking about tattoos, so how his train of thought jumped from that to tumblr, Harry’s not sure.  
  
“I - What? Why?”  
  
Louis then launches into a speech Harry can only guess he’s had prepared for some time. It ends with: “So, basically, _I_ have one, and you think your songwriting sucks and isn’t good enough and no one will like them right? Well here’s your chance to find out! It can be totally anonymous. Make people call you H or Hazza or something. And then, y’know, I’ll finally get to read some of your stuff.”  
  
Harry drops his face into his pillow, groaning loudly – and over dramatically – for a few seconds, trying to ignore Louis' _please please please please pleeeeeease_ before he finally says, “ _Fine_.”   
  
Louis whoops and cheers. “Go, go! Do it now!”  
  
“It’s like . . . way too early.”  
  
“It’s noon, sleepyhead. When did you go to bed last night?”  
  
 _At like six this morning_. “I don’t know. Guess I’m just exhausted from all our texting,” he jokes.  
  
Louis’ answering laugh sounds like music. “Ah, Curly, you ain't seen nothing yet.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

Shortly later, without getting out of bed, he pulls his laptop up beside him and goes about the steps required to make a tumblr. His phone continuously goes off with texts from Louis telling him to hurry and then finally about four hundred and a half exclamation points after Harry tells him he’s done.  
  
 _Don’t worry about making it pretty yet._  
  
 _I’M GROWING IMPATIENT STYLES_  
  
It takes Harry twenty-five minutes to decide which song to use and to type it up – twenty-five minutes he spends ignoring Louis’ eleven text messages. When he’s done though, the lyrics up there for the world to see and tagged appropriately, he sends a text to Louis telling him the name of his blog and also _pretend to love it okay_.  
  
Seventeen minutes pass before he hears back from Louis. He nearly pulls out all of his hair in anticipation and anxiety. Then, when his phone actually goes off, he can’t even look at Louis’ text, too worried it's going to say something like _failure_ or _sucks_ even though he knows even if the song _did_ suck, Louis would never tell him – and if he did, he’d probably do it with a lot more tact than just ‘oh you suck.’   
  
There are three text messages from Louis. They read _holy shit_ and _you’re so talented, babe_ and _marry me, okay_.  
  
It takes Harry a minute before he can get past the _babe_ and _marry me_. Then he calls Louis and as soon as he answers he says, “I swear to God, if you are lying to me, just trying to be nice . . .”

 

~*~*~*~*~

  
It’s the middle of March and Harry has just sat down to lunch with his mum when his phone starts going off. She gives him a look because they have a rule about phones at the table. When he sees its Louis calling though, he promises her he’ll make it quick.  
  
It’s not uncommon for Louis to call Harry randomly during the day. They don’t have late night conversations much anymore. The fact that he’s calling during a meal time though, is a little odd.  
  
Harry leaves the room before answering.  
  
“Lou?” he asks, feeling nausea in the pit of his stomach. “What’s up?”  
  
It’s quiet for a couple seconds and if it weren’t for the fact that he can hear Louis breathing shallowly on the other side and distant voices in the background, he’d think the line was dead.  
  
“Harry, I’m sorry. I just . . . I didn't know who else to call.”  
  
His stomach clenches even tighter. “What’s wrong?”  
  
And then Louis is _sobbing_ and Harry feels all the air leave his lungs. “I just don’t know what to do. They won’t stop fighting; the girls are crying. It’s too much. I can’t _handle_ it anymore. They can't stop for five damn minutes and . . .”  
  
“Your parents?” He guesses, his voice quiet and barely audible. He’s surprised Louis can even hear him.  
  
“It’s been happening for a while,” Louis explains, “but it’s never been this bad. What if . . .” his voice gets quiet, “What if they get a divorce?” he whispers.  
  
Harry was pretty young when his own dad walked out, but he still gets flashbacks of all the fighting, memories of things getting knocked over, Gemma crying. He sucks in a breath, trying to think of what to say. What would he have wanted someone to say to him when his parents were getting a divorce?  
  
“It’s going to be hard,” he says, going with honesty. “But you’ll survive this, Louis.”  
  
“I don’t think I can.”  
  
“You will though,” Harry argues, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You have to be strong for your sisters.”  
  
Louis lets out a shaky breath. “What if I can’t though? I don’t know . . . I try . . . and it just . . .”  
  
“You can be. You _are_ ,” he interrupts. “You’re the strongest person I know. And God forbid, if it gets too rough, take the girls out of the house for a couple hours or a weekend even; find someone to stay with just so you can get away from all the fighting.”  
  
Louis doesn’t answer for a minute or two, his breath evening out. “That’s probably a good idea.”  
  
“And if you need me,” Harry continues, voice a little quieter now and more hesitant, “you know I’ll be there for you in a heartbeat. If you want me to meet you somewhere, just to get away from everything for a day or even an hour . . .”  
  
“You would do that?”  
  
“Of course I would. You . . . you’re like . . .” It’s the first time he’s ever really thought about the ‘them’ that is him and Louis. “You’re, like, my best mate,” he finally says, realizing that every word is true.  
  
It’s only been a short while but he’s already come to depend on Louis. He likes waking up to text messages or phone calls from him; he likes Louis’ weird sense of humor and how often he cracks jokes; how he’s the only one who can really make Harry laugh; that he can smile with the other boy and actually mean it.  
  
“You too,” Louis says. He sighs a little. “Don’t tell Liam though, he’d probably kill you – or me, probably both of us.” He doesn’t laugh, not exactly, but his voice sounds relaxed enough Harry can tell he's joking.  
  
“Keep me updated, okay? You’re going to be fine. And I’m sorry, you know.”  
  
“Thanks, mate. I’ll, uh . . . I'll call you later.” It sounds like a question.  
  
“I’m always here.”

 

 

~*~*~*~*~

  
It’s Saturday night. Louis keeps sending Harry drunken messages until eventually Liam takes the boy’s phone away and sends a text that says _Lou has lost his texting privileges._ So Harry heads downstairs to watch a movie or maybe Doctor Who to keep himself entertained.  
  
He’s debating on which Doctor to watch when his step-dad walks through the front door, drunk off his ass. Harry tries to ignore him, but can’t help but stiffen a little when Pete walks over to the couch, tossing his jacket onto it.  
  
“What’re you doin’?” he slurs.  
  
Harry shrugs, starts to stand up. _Going upstairs to get away from you._  
  
“Get me a beer,” he orders.  
  
Harry knows better than to argue, to say _haven’t you had enough_ like he really wants to. His mum is out at the cinema with one of her girlfriends and this kind of thing has happened on enough occasions for Harry to get a hint at what’s probably coming, to know its better if he just goes along with whatever Pete wants. _Don’t want to piss him off._  
  
He gets Pete his beer, even opens it for him like the good step-son he is, then starts to head back upstairs. Pete grabs onto his wrist though, pulling him down onto the couch next to him.  
  
“Drink some with me,” he offers, holding out the bottle.  
  
“No thanks.”  
  
Pete’s eyes narrow. “ _Drink_ ,” he repeats.  
  
So Harry drinks. It brings him back to the first time he’d had a beer, licking it off the floor, and he still hates it just as much. Then Pete literally shoves the bottle into his mouth, pouring the liquid down his throat so fast Harry starts choking on it. Pete just laughs and pats him on the shoulder like he’s a good boy.  
  
“There you go.”  
  
When the bottle is empty Harry starts to get up again.  
  
“More,” Pete says, stopping him in his tracks. So he heads to the kitchen to get him another one. “And bring me my cigarettes.”  
  
Pete’s not allowed to smoke in the house – it’s a cardinal rule – but he does anyway whenever Anne’s not home to see him. She must smell the lingering smoke in the air when she gets back, but she’s never said anything about it. Not from what Harry can tell, at least.  
  
Harry finds the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of Pete’s jacket and hands him both that and another beer from the fridge. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he waits until Pete’s distracted lighting his cigarette then starts towards the stairs.  
  
“Don’t even think ‘bout it.” Pete’s voice cuts through him like glass.  
  
Harry sighs and walks back over to the couch. “Yeah?” he asks, wondering what he wants now.  
  
“Don’t talk to me in that tone.” He glares. “’m your father,” he points at himself, “you’ll speak to me with the ‘spect I deserve.”  
  
Harry has to bite his tongue.  
  
“Sit down.” A pause and then, “and take off your . . .” he waves his hands around, “your shirt.”  
  
 _This,_ the way he just orders him around, is almost worse than anything else; like he’s just some play toy, here for his step-dad’s entertainment and nothing more.  
  
He does take off his jumper though, revealing the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Pete pulls at it so he takes that off too. His arms and chest are lined with faint white marks, just like his wrists; scars from when Pete’s pushed him into things or scratched him hard enough to make him bleed; cuts from sinking razors into his skin. There’s a fading bruise over his abdomen from a couple days earlier and Pete eyes it, smiling like he’s reliving the moment he put it there. Probably why he always makes Harry go around shirtless; he likes to admire his work.  
  
He takes a puff of his cigarette then hands it to Harry. This happens frequently, too, and they pass it back and forth for a minute before Pete wraps an arm loosely around the younger lad’s shoulder.  
  
And, because he is only human, Harry flinches.  
  
But it's enough to set Pete off.  
  
His grip tightens instantly and he presses the butt of the cigarette into Harry’s shoulder. Harry's eyes immediately start watering and he has to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out. He has identical scars on his back and shoulders from when Pete’s done this other times, usually after having just fucked him. Harry’s no stranger, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting.  
  
“Don’t fucking flinch when I touch you. You like it when older men touch you.” Another press of the cigarette into his skin, another scar to add to the collection. “You like taking it up the ass.” He presses and drags the cigarette down Harry’s arm, though the heat is mostly gone by now. “Because you’re a stupid faggot; you deserve everything you get.”  
  
Pete stands up suddenly, staring down at him. He grabs onto Harry’s hair and pulls until the curly haired boy has fallen off the couch onto his knees. He thinks for a half-a-second Pete’s going to make him suck him off – wouldn’t be the first time – , but then his step-father pushes Harry onto his back. He squeezes his eyes shut just as Pete’s foot connects with his ribs _over and over again_.  
  
“You sorry excuse for a human being.”  
  
Harry tries to curl up into a ball, to crawl and get away from Pete, but the older man shoves him onto his back again and holds out the cigarette. “Eat it.”  
  
When his mum arrives home shortly later, Harry’s locked himself in the bathroom, throwing up the cigarette and the contents of his stomach.

 

 

~*~*~*~*~

  
On one of the rare nights Harry has the house to himself, he calls Louis up. It’s only the second or third time he’s ever called Louis first. He’s usually too nervous to get up the courage to do so.  
  
Louis is quieter than usual on the phone and Harry keeps asking him what’s wrong, but Louis assures he’s fine, that yeah, his parents are still fighting, but it’s not as bad as it was before. So on and so forth.  
  
Just when he’s about to give up, Louis asks, “What exactly did I say the other night?”  
  
It takes Harry a minute to catch on to what Louis is going on about. “You mean when you went out drinking with Liam?”  
  
“Technically I didn’t go out drinking _with_ Liam. We went out and I got drunk and Liam supervised. But yes, that’s what I’m referring to.”  
  
“Just the usual, I guess. You want to marry me and think I’m bloody fit,” Harry teases.  
  
Louis laughs quietly. “Anything else?”  
  
“You kept sending me pictures of shirtless guys.”  
  
It’s silent for a few moments. “We were at a gay pub,” he explains. There’s a pause. After a couple moments he continues, saying, “Because I’m gay, so.”  
  
He had figured as much, ever since the snogging joke he had made the first time they met. He’s never said it out loud; it’s never been something they’ve discussed or talked about. They had joked about fit guys, but never too seriously.  
  
Now he doesn’t really know what to say. He’s at a loss for words. He's never had this conversation with anyone before. He's in uncharted territory.  
  
“I kind of guessed,” he admits. “Does anyone else know?”  
  
Louis sounds only a little more relaxed when he says, “Liam and my mum do, but other than that, no.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you told me.”  
  
“You’re not like some homophobic twat are you?” Louis half-jokes.  
  
Harry smirks. “Definitely not.”  
  
Louis laughs. “Thank God. I’d have to send Liam to beat you up.”  
  
“Sending others to do your dirty work for you, huh?”  
  
“I’m too precious to be beating people up.”  
  
His voice has returned to normal. His laugh is cheerful and makes something inside Harry’s chest squeeze, almost uncomfortably. He lies back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Louis ramble on on the other end.

 

~*~*~*~*~

  
It happens the last Friday of March. Louis calls him early in the morning, claiming he’s been up since three because his parents have been fighting non-stop. He’s pretty sure this is it; they’re getting a divorce.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Lou.”  
  
“It’s – well, it’s not okay, but it’s not your fault.”  
  
“I know that, but I also know what you’re going through and . . . well, I’m just really sorry. I wish you didn’t have to put up with it.”  
  
It’s quiet for a few moments, but he knows Louis is still on the other end, letting his words sink in.  
  
“The girls are headed over to my gran’s and, well . . . Liam and I were thinking of heading into Manchester for the weekend. And . . . you wouldn’t have to worry about paying for anything, so if you wanted to come . . .”  
  
“Of course,” Harry interrupts quickly, already excited at the prospect of getting out of the house. He wishes it wasn’t under these circumstances, but still.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Don’t sound so surprised, Lou.”  
  
He laughs. “Well I know it’s last minute and stuff, so I didn’t know.”  
  
“When am I meeting you? Where am I meeting you?”  
  
Louis chuckles again. “Li and I are headed up there in about an hour, gonna skip school, but if you need to go - -”  
  
He scoffs. _Yeah right._ “Just text me where to meet you and I’ll be there.”  
  
“Thanks Haz.”  
  
“I’ll see you soon.

 

~*~*~*~*~

Harry realizes he probably should have gotten permission from his mum _before_ telling Louis he’d meet him in Manchester. She’s pretty lenient about letting him miss school though, and seems to understand the direness of the situation, so she just gives him a kiss on the forehead and tells him to be safe. She tucks a couple notes in his pocket, ignoring it when he argues with her that he can pay for the train ride himself – _I have a job, y’know_ – and heads out the door for work. Pete is already gone, thank God, so he takes a quick shower, throws some things in a bag, and leaves for the station.  
  
He feels jittery the entire ride there, barely able to keep still. He has to keep reminding himself that he and Louis have only known each other for a couple months. They’re already so close; it feels like they’ve know each other for years. It also feels a lot longer than a couple months since Harry’s seen him.  
  
He’s also, well, _nervous_. He hates to admit it, but he doesn’t really know how to act around people that well. With his friends at school, they get on okay, they sometimes sit together at lunch – Harry is usually doing homework or in the library; very rarely does he actually _eat_ lunch – and hang out between classes from time to time. That’s it. They don’t talk about serious things and none of them have really gotten to know him or vice versa. They’re all used to him being quiet and off to himself most of the time. Harry's actually pretty sure they're just friends with him because he's a nerd and doesn't care if they copy off his homework.  
  
The closer the train gets to Manchester, the more anxious Harry gets. He manages to calm himself down a bit by plugging in his headphones and listening to music for the remaining fifteen minutes. But then _The Man Who Can’t Be Moved_ comes on and he starts getting restless all over again.  
  
When they finally pull up, he peers out the window, knowing Louis is there somewhere, waiting for him. Harry had offered to meet him and Liam at the hotel, but Louis had said – well _texted_ – _you’ll do no such thing. I’ll pick you up like a proper gentleman._ Harry had been trying to ignore the feeling it left him with to no avail.  
  
He has to keep telling himself that it’s not like they’re _dating_ or anything, even though it kind of feels like they are and his heart is beating out of his chest like he’s about to get off the train and see the love of his life, like in some cheesy rom-com he is _definitely_ not obsessed with.  
  
All he can think about is how pathetic he is, really.  
  
He doesn’t even _believe_ in love. He loves his mum and his sister of course, but _falling_ in love is a foreign concept. Life has given him zero evidence of it being a real and lasting thing.  
  
So he definitely doesn’t _love_ Louis or anything.  
  
And even if he did – he doesn’t, but if he did – Louis wouldn’t love him back. No one’s ever going to love him. He’s incapable of being loved. He knows it. His step-father knows it. Everyone knows it.  
  
So really, the whole love thing is just stupid and pointless.  
  
He spots Louis and Liam before they spot him. There’s nothing _extraordinary_ about Louis really, but there’s nothing _not_ extraordinary about him either. He’s wearing rolled up jeans, toms, and a striped t-shirt. His hair is mostly hidden underneath a beanie and he has on glasses that Harry didn’t know he needed. One hand is clutching Liam’s sleeve as he stands on his tippy toes, scanning the crowd.  
  
Instinctively, Harry feels himself relax a little as he approaches them.  
  
“Looking for me?” he asks quietly.  
  
Louis turns, his eyes widen, and before Harry knows what’s happening, Louis has thrown his arms around him.  
  
He should have seen something like this coming. Why _wouldn’t_ Louis hug him? And it’s fine, really. It’s just . . . the only one who touches him besides his mum and Gem (the only _male_ who touches him) is Pete, and well . . . he hasn’t had much good experience with that. He’s not used to people touching him in a friendly manner. He always expects some ulterior motive beneath the surface. But this is _Louis_ for crying out loud, he’s not going to hit him or anything.  
  
But still. Harry can’t help but flinch.  
  
It’s a noticeable flinch too, not something he can brush off and pretend didn’t happen. Louis pulls back immediately, looking sheepish and on the edge of apologizing.  
  
“Hey Lou,” Harry says before he _can_ apologize. He turns to the boy next to Louis. He’s got straightened hair and big brown eyes. “Liam, hi.”  
  
He smiles. “Nice to finally meet you, Harry. Louis here doesn’t shut up about you.”  
  
Harry can’t help but smile back at that, especially when Louis elbows Liam in the side. “Do not,” the older boy argues.  
  
There are dark bags under Louis’ eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping, and his eyes aren’t exactly the brightness that Harry remembers. He looks tired and much older than just eighteen, but he’s smiling – weakly, sure, but Harry can’t exactly blame him. Divorces are straining.  
  
“Let’s go,” Louis urges, and they start walking towards the car park. Louis holds out his hand, almost like he’s reaching for something, then stops himself and stuffs it back in his pocket.


	5. Distractions

The hotel isn't too far from the train station. They stay just long enough for Harry to drop off his stuff. It’s a small room with two double beds and he wonders briefly who’s going to be sharing.

The idea of sharing a bed with Louis is in his mind for half a second before they’re off again. They go and get breakfast first because Louis is starving. He slides into the booth beside Harry, looking over at the curly haired boy with his brilliant, bright blue eyes. He probably doesn’t want to talk about what’s going on back at his house, just wants a distraction. And Harry thinks . . . he can probably, hopefully be that distraction . . . or at least help with it.

Louis doesn’t talk much though, which is how Harry knows he must be taking it hard; in all the time they have known each other (which, granted, isn't that long) Louis has never stayed quiet for an extended amount of time. Harry uses the opportunity to get to know Liam a little better, thinking eventually Louis will join in.

He’s talked to Liam before, a few times actually; once on the phone and couple times through text messages. He’s a year older than Harry, but skipped a grade so that’s how he ended up in Louis’ class. He wants to get into the music industry, likes learning how music comes together and Harry can’t help but agree with him there. They end up talking about that for most of the meal, comparing artists and albums and genres.

Louis does eventually chime in when Harry asks what the plans are for the weekend.

“Get totally smashed,” he answers with a kind of glint in his eye. It’s one of the many times Harry isn’t sure if he’s actually serious, but Harry raises his milkshake anyways and say, “Cheers to that,” before taking a drink.

“And Li’s going to look at us all judge-y like, ‘specially since you’re only _sixteen_ ,” Louis emphasizes, groaning. “God you’re so _young_ , and I’m _old_.” This seems to be a big deal to him because he gets pouty all of a sudden and swipes Harry’s milkshake right out of his hand.

Liam distracts him by saying, “I’m not actually opposed to us – er, _you_ – getting drunk.”

Louis’ eyebrows disappear underneath the fringe that’s hanging over his forehead. “Wow. Maybe my parents should get divorced more often.” It was a slip, a joke he probably didn’t mean to make. He bites his lip and Harry suddenly gets the urge to wrap an arm around him, protect him from his parent’s divorce and anything else bad that comes his way. Before he can get the thought out of his head, Louis says, “ha ha” all awkward-nelly like and then, “I’m gonna go use the loo,” and he’s gone.

There are a couple moments of silence, then Harry says, “Well,” and tightens his grip on the edge of the table, wondering if he should get up and follow Louis, make sure he’s alright.

Liam beats him to it though. “I’m going to go check on him.”

Harry nods and watches him go. Right, that’s _his_ job. _He’s_ the best friend, not Harry. Harry’s well . . . he doesn’t know what he is. Harry knows Louis said they were best mates, but he doesn't think he meant it like that. The way Louis and Liam interact and communicate is so familiar and with such ease; Harry can't help but be a little jealous.

He sits there for a couple minutes, staring down at his food that he doesn’t really plan on finishing – or starting for that matter. He doesn’t know why he ordered it in the first place. He pushes it away from himself and the waitress comes to clear everything away, leaving only his milkshake, Liam’s coffee, and Louis’ tea.

When the other two come back, Harry’s staring out the window, watching people walk past, growing steadily envious of whatever lives they lead.

Louis’ eyes look a little red, but his smile is genuine so Harry assumes he’s at least a little better. Liam obviously knows what he's doing, knows how to cheer him up. And if that makes him even more jealous . . . well, Harry's good at ignoring it.

~*~*~*~*~

They walk around town for a bit, stopping at different stores but not staying anywhere for too long - that is, until they find a record store that seems pretty decent. Immediately Louis starts a game of ‘yay or nay’ and before long they’re arguing about whether or not Justin Bieber can be considered a musician.

“Does he even do anything besides sing?” Harry asks.

Liam hasn’t really been joining in with the discussion, but he says, “I think he plays guitar?” not looking up from where he’s sorting through the F’s.

“Exactly, see! Guitar playing equals musician,” Louis says.

Harry shrugs his shoulders. "Eh. I guess it does."

Louis frowns. When he looks down though, his eyes brighten and he picks up a copy of Adele’s album, _19._ He holds it out, shaking it in front of Harry’s eyes. “Okay then, what about Adele?”

Harry pulls the CD away from him and tucks it back where it belongs. “Of _course_ Adele’s a musician. Do you even have to ask?”

Louis nods contently. A couple minutes later he sighs. “I could never be a musician.” He seems saddened by this thought and Harry looks up quickly.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, keeping his eyes focused on the albums he's sorting through. “I can’t play an instrument and I don’t think I have the patience to learn. My mum tried to teach me a bit of piano when I was younger, and that didn’t go over so well.”

Harry opens his mouth, about to suggest that maybe he needs a different teacher. His mum tried to teach him piano, too, and it didn’t work, but when his music teacher at school gave it a shot, he picked it up quickly. Before he can say anything though, Louis is talking again.

“And here I am, surrounded by all these talented musicians.” He groans sarcastically.

Harry raises his eyebrow in confusion, not understanding to who he is referring.  
  
Louis looks up and smiles. “You and Liam,” he explains.

Harry turns to look at Liam, who says, “I can play the drums and piano, and a little guitar.”

“Who ever said I could play an instrument?” Harry then asks Louis, going back to sorting through music.

Louis just narrows his eyes, looking at him like he’s an idiot for a half-a-minute before saying, “First of all, you just kind of scream ‘ **musician!** ’ and you talk about music like your entire life revolves around it. And plus, you were given a guitar for your birthday, so,” he shrugs, “I kind of assumed.” His face softens and he smiles. “I’m right though, aren’t I?”

Harry sighs, but nods. He’s just glad Louis hadn’t mentioned his songwriting in front of Liam. That’s not exactly something he wants broadcasted.

“What can you play?” Liam asks.

He shrugs in response. “A little of this, a little of that.”

They get to the back of the store, having made it through the A – M artists. Hanging on the walls are guitars of all types, some for sale and others vintage or signed by famous musicians. There’s also a drum set, a keyboard, and a couple stools. Probably there for people who want to try out the equipment before they buy, he assumes.

Louis is next to Harry all of a sudden. He slides his hand over Harry’s, interlocking their fingers. Harry tries not to jump or look at all bothered by the touch, but it’s hard to do when he’s not use to people – especially boys, especially _cute_ boys – touching him. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, or notice, he just squeezes his hand and pulls him over to where the bar stools are.

“Come on then,” he says, picking up an acoustic guitar off its stand and handing it to Harry. “Show me what you got.”

Harry frowns but takes the guitar from him. “I dunno, Lou.” He looks around, suddenly self-conscious and feeling eyes on the back of his head. The only other people in the store though are at the front, checking out.

Louis just juts out his lower lip, pouting, and Harry sighs, a ‘fine’ escaping his lips before he sits down on the stool closest to him, resting the guitar on his legs.

He only has to think for a couple of seconds before he knows what song he wants to play. Then he starts strumming out the beginning notes to _The Man Who Can’t Be Moved_. Louis smiles immediately in recognition so Harry takes that as a cue to keep going.

“ _I know it makes no sense, but what else can I do?_  
 _How can I move on when I’m still in love with you?”_

Louis starts singing quietly and the suddenness of his voice, the beauty of it, almost makes Harry miss a chord. His voice is so different, high and low, rough and soft, deep and melodic, and for a moment Harry can’t take his eyes off of him, watching his lips move in perfect time with the music, feeling like Louis is singing right to him.

“ _‘Cause if one day you wake up and find that you’re missing me,  
And your heart starts to wonder, where on this earth I could be? _  
_Thinking maybe you’d come back here to the place that we meet,_  
 _And you’ll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street._  
 _So I’m not moving. I’m not moving._ ”

Harry pauses for a minute and Louis’ voice cuts off.

“You’re really good, y’know,” Harry tells him. “Like _really_ good.”

“Oh I know,” he replies, sounding cocky, but there’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

The curly haired lad just shrugs. “Eh, I’m ‘ight.”

He starts playing again, Louis starts singing, and then Liam gets behind the drum set and picks up the beat. Before he knows it, they’re playing a rough, semi-acoustic version of the song. They’re not great, no, but they’re good. They sound pretty decent for how young and inexperienced they are and the fact that they’ve never played together before.

When the song is done Harry looks at Louis. He’s beaming, like he’s not thinking at all about his family and what’s happening back in Doncaster. Even though Harry had been nervous at first, he thinks if it makes Louis happy, then it’s worth it. So he picks another song that he knows all the notes to and starts strumming the guitar again.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry feels sick after lunch, like ‘I’m not used to having this much food inside of me’ sick. He tries to pass it off on nerves or just that he’s full, but he knows neither is the case. He manages to ignore the pain for a little bit; pretend like he’s perfectly fine.

Louis is sitting next to him again. They’ve all finished eating already, but now they’re just hanging out, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Louis keeps throwing things at Liam: straw wrappers, napkins, food, his cell phone, anything he can get his hands on basically. At first Liam just gives him a disapproving look, warning him that they’re going to get kicked out _again_ (because apparently this is something that happens on a regular basis) but then he starts fighting back. He even goes so far as to reach across the table and drop an ice cube down Louis’ shirt.

Harry starts laughing while Louis jumps around a little, complaining about how cold it is.

It’s not enough of a distraction though. As hard as he’s trying to seem perfectly normal and healthy and happy, it’s not working. So he tells the boys he needs to go to the toilet and Louis moves out of the way. Harry snakes his way through the crowded café until he finds the bathroom, thankfully empty.

He splashes his face with cold water first, thinking maybe that will help. It doesn’t. His stomach is pressing up against his jeans and he just feels so _full_. He wraps his arms around his waist, groaning a little bit and hunching over. When he looks in the mirror – which is a stupid mistake, really – it feels like he can _see_ the bulging of his stomach through his jumper.

It’s disgusting, really. How does anyone even look at him? And why did he eat so much? Why is he so stupid?

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls, and then locks himself in one of the stalls, knowing when he came in here that this was bound to happen anyway.

He’s ashamed of it, too. He hates that he has to do these things to feel better about himself, but what else is there?

He leans down, sticks his fingers down his throat and finally _finally_ everything feels all right.

He washes his hands when he's done, splashes more cool water on his face then dries it off. He fixes his hair, flicking it back into place, and leaves the bathroom as soon as he look half-way normal, or as normal as he can look, really.

“You okay, Hazza?” Louis asks when Harry sits back down beside him.

He nods. “Yeah, ‘course.” He reaches for his tea, taking a small sip.

“Aren’t you warm?” the older boy asks, fingering his jumper. “I’m friggin toasted.” Louis pulls the collar of his t-shirt for a moment before letting go of it, letting it snap back into place.

Harry shrugs in reply. “I’m fine.” Then, to change the subject, he asks, “Where are we going next?”

With the conversation finally off of him, he relaxes, leaning back against the booth.

~*~*~*~*~

At around nine they head back to the hotel, mostly because Harry feels like he’s about to pass out. When Liam finally gets the door unlocked, Harry’s the first one in, face planting onto the first bed he sees. He curls up in a ball and mutters something unintelligible like _sleep, now, g’night_. He thinks it should be that easy, but apparently not. Next thing he knows, Louis is jumping up and down beside him.

“It’s too early to be sleeping, Harry Potter.” Harry turns over just enough to glare at Louis, because _yeah, ha ha ha, like I haven’t heard that one before_. “Come on, Hazza.” Louis pulls on his arm. “We’re going to go downstairs and get candy from the vending machines and pig out and get all hyper and annoy Liam until he starts throwing things at us, okay?”

Harry shakes his head, face buried in the pillows again. “No thanks. Sleep is good.” He squeezes his eyes shut and it gets quieter. He thinks Louis has given up so he turns around, stretching out on his back, his head still turned into the pillow.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis pleads, louder this time, and when Harry opens his eyes Louis is crawling up the bed and slinging a leg over him, effectively straddling the younger boy.

Harry freezes.

Louis doesn’t appear to notice. “Come on. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Before Liam gets out of the shower.”

“What’re you doing?” Harry chokes out.

Louis pauses. He’d been rubbing his hands together and clapping them gently, but he stops. He tilts his head now, looking confused. “What d’ya mean?”

Harry drops his eyes to where their bodies – their _crotches_ – are pressed together.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Louis tries to make it sound like a joke, but Harry can hear his worried, nervous undertones.

Harry starts sitting up, gently pushing Louis off of him, and nodding his head, then shaking it quickly. “No, no. It’s fine,” he says, even though his actions are saying something completely different. “Let’s, uh, go get that candy.” He hops up off the bed and starts walking towards the door, feeling eyes on the back of his head. He opens the door and finally turns around. Louis is still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little defeated.

Finally Louis nods. “Right.” He smiles. “Let’s go.”

The rest of the night passes by slightly awkwardly. They do pig out on candy and Liam does throw a couple pillows at them, but Harry feels like everyone’s laughter is a little forced. He tries to make up for his miniature freak-out, but Louis goes out of the way to make sure he doesn’t touch him, not even in the friendliest of manners.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day passes much like the first. They have breakfast at the same place then go see a movie at the cinema. Afterwards they hang out at the record store for a couple hours, going through the albums they didn’t have time for yesterday.

None of them go near the back where all the stools are.

The only major difference is how Louis treats Harry. He’s not rude or anything, just as pleasant and hilarious as any other day, but instead of sitting next to Harry, he sits next to Liam, and instead of walking next to Harry, Liam walks between them.

It’s not bad really, but Harry feels _awful_ and has to keep reminding himself that _technically_ he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not his fault he doesn’t feel comfortable with Louis climbing all over him.

It doesn’t work though, unsurprisingly, and he grows grumpier and grumpier as the day goes on.

~*~*~*~*~

They get back to the hotel at around eleven that night, which Louis thinks is way too early, but Harry wants to take a shower and Liam’s tired, so he’s outnumbered.

Harry takes his time in the bathroom, letting the hot water soak his sore muscles. When he gets out, Louis is gone and Liam’s on the bed furthest from the bathroom, flipping through the channels on the television.

He starts towel drying his hair. “Where’s Lou?”

Liam shrugs, dropping the remote next to him. Misfits is on. “Dunno,” he answers. “He said he had something important to see to and left before I could ask any questions.” He shrugs again. He must sense Harry’s unease though because he laughs a little. “No worries. He does this all the time. He’ll be back eventually.”

Harry does relax a little and sits down on the other bed. He’s changed into sweats, but he’s still wearing his jumper from the day. It’s his favorite jumper actually: too big and an off white color.

It’s quiet for a few minutes and he doesn’t know about Liam, but it feels a little awkward and uncomfortable for him. Now that Louis is gone it’s like he doesn’t know what to talk about. He struggles to think of what people might usually say in these type of situations. Has anyone ever _been_ in this kind of situation?

Eventually he settles with, “How did you and Louis meet?” something he’s actually curious about, so it doesn’t come out all forced like he was worried it would.

Liam chuckles a little and Harry’s instantly envious of how easy it seems for other people to do something such as _laugh_ or smile when for him it feels like he has to prepare himself mentally before and after, like it’s such a big accomplishment if he can actually smile and mean it. It’s easy with Louis he’s learned, but there’s still something there. Like he just doesn’t know how to be happy.

Harry curls up on the bed, under the covers, as Liam starts talking.

“It’s actually a funny story. I was eight, Louis was nine, and I’d only lived in Doncaster for about a week maybe. I was really sick as a kid, and also shy and small for my age, so I never made friends easily. Louis made it his mission to get me out of my shell though. He would _not_ leave me alone.” He laughs again. “He would find me after school and just start talking about his day. He’d follow me home like the creeper he is.”

“I was not a creeper!” The door slams shut behind Louis and Harry jumps a little, not having heard him come in.

“Was too and still are, love.”

Harry is thrown off at the endearment for some reason. He looks between the two. Louis had said Liam was straight, but it's not the first time Harry's questioned it. He doesn’t know why, but the idea of Liam not being straight, bothers him a little bit.

Actually, he doesn’t really care if Liam’s straight or not, it’s just Liam being interested in Louis that would bother him.  
  
Not that Harry has any claim to Louis whatsoever, but still . . .

“Anyway,” Liam continues, “I hadn’t said two words to the lad, but he just wouldn’t let it go. So he gives up - - -”

Louis snorts, swinging his arms at his side. Its then that Harry realizes he's holding a plastic bag, though what’s in it, he can’t tell.

“I did not give up,” Louis says. “I tricked you. I knew if I stopped talking to you all of a sudden, you’d _have_ to say something. I’m a genius, I am.”

Liam coughs. “Right, if you say so.”

“Did you mention the fact that I _saved your life_?”

Liam rolls his eyes. “You did not save my life.”

Louis looks taken aback. “I did so! You were getting beaten up. If it weren’t for me those ten-year-old's would’ve punch the pretty right outta ya. And there’s not too much to begin with.” Louis winks, then ducks when Liam throws a pillow at him. “You know I love you.”

Liam chuckles. It might just be Harry's vision faltering or something, but the lad's cheeks look a little blushed.

“What’s in the bag?” Harry asks, his curiosity getting the best of him. Also he’s starting to feel weird with the direction the conversation is headed.

“Oh!” Louis smiles all wide, and in that moment Harry’s suddenly reminded of Peter Pan with the way Louis looks, all innocent and a little naïve. He probably thinks he can stay young forever too.

Of course then Louis dumps out what's in the bag onto the bed, and Harry starts to think maybe he’s not so innocent after all.

“Holy shit, Lou,” Liam’s the first to speak – Harry’s a little shocked; he’s never heard him cuss before. “Did you buy out the liquor store?”

Louis just grins again and wiggles his eyebrows.

There are nine or eleven bottles of alcohol at the end of Harry’s bed, ranging from stuff that’ll probably have zero effect on them, to bottles that he feels a little drunk just looking at.

“Lads, it’s our last night; we’re getting wasted.”

And that they do.

 

Liam refuses to drink at first, claiming he needs to supervise and something about a kidney that Harry doesn’t really catch. Louis points out that _we’re in a fucking hotel for crying out loud_ so Liam gives in and opens one of the “pussy” bottles – as Louis had dubbed them.

It does not take Louis long to get drunk even though apparently he has a high tolerance for liquor. (“Lots of practice,” he says with a wink.) It takes Harry longer only because he doesn’t drink much at first. Then he starts to enjoy the nice buzz it leaves him with and starts drinking _more more more_. He cannot handle his alcohol at all it seems because next thing he knows Louis and him are standing on the bed dancing and singing Skinny Love at the top of their lungs, completely out of tune.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and Harry likes that he doesn’t flinch or even squirm. He thinks he could get use to this – the alcohol or Louis, he’s not sure. Louis is nice and warm and _tiny_. Harry buries his face is his neck, laughing. He’s not sure at what, but he’s pretty sure Louis said something funny.

“Love your hair, Curly,” Louis says, slurring his words a bit. Harry’s pretty sure he’s the drunker of the two of them. Louis runs a hand through his curly hair, massaging the scalp a little and Harry practically melts at the sensation. He’s never felt anything so good in his entire life. He lets out a content sigh, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. “But why,” Louis continues, “do you have like . . . a bald spot?” He’s rubbing his fingers at the back of Harry’s head where some of his hair is thinning out. Louis laughs abruptly. “Oh my God, you’re going bald, Hazza.”

Harry knows why that spot is there. At least he thinks he knows. It’s in the back of his mind somewhere, on the edge of his thoughts, but something tells him not to go there. He doesn’t really care anyways. He just laughs along with Louis, nodding his head.

He can _laugh_ , like actually laugh without trying to. It’s so easy. He’s never laughed so much in his life.

Louis is just so funny. And Harry tells him so.

“What?” Louis asks, pulling back to look at the younger boy. Harry just shrugs though and tries to lay his head back on Louis’ shoulder, thinking maybe the other boy will go back to playing with his curls. Louis stops him though.

They just stare at each other, Louis’ big, blue eyes meeting Harry’s green ones.

“You have very pretty eyes,” Harry tells him. “Very pretty. Like the ocean, y’know? Your eyes look like the ocean, but bluer.”

Louis breaks out into a smile. “You too, Curly.”

“My eyes look like the ocean?”

He laughs. “A green ocean.” He looks over his shoulder and Harry follows his gaze; Liam is passed out in the other bed.

“What do we do now?” Harry asks quietly – or he attempts to be quiet, he’s not sure it works so well.

Harry doesn’t really get an answer though. Louis just laughs again, tightens his hold on the back of Harry’s hair and brings their faces closer. He doesn’t close his eyes at first but Louis does. The older boy’s face is brought into sharp detail. He can see a few freckles and Louis’ eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. Their mouths are an inch apart and they’re just breathing each others air. Louis sighs and leans forward, and Harry closes his eyes just as their mouths press together.

The kiss – if you can even call it that – lasts about a fraction of a second, just skin touching skin. Harry can feel it in his entire body though, from the tips of his fingers down to his toes. He’s never even kissed a girl before, didn’t know it could feel like this. If he had known kisses were this good, he would have been more eager to find willing participants. He’s pretty sure it’s probably just the alcohol speaking though. 

Their foreheads press together for a minute and Louis opens his eyes. Their eyes meet and that’s when Louis surges forward and they’re kissing again, _really_ kissing. Louis fists his hair and Harry’s hands drop down to the other boy’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Louis licks along his lower lip and automatically Harry’s mouth parts, granting him entrance. He licks his way into Harry’s mouth, still running his fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t want it to stop. He’s pretty sure he could do this forever, just stand here, nearly falling over on the squeaky bed, kissing Louis. He wonders if maybe it’s just Louis, if he’s just that good of a kisser. He’s probably kissed loads of guys. He goes to gay pubs all the time; he's probably done more than just kissing.

This though, it’s not even like kissing really, it’s like a battle of their mouths, fast paced and quickly heating up. He wants to convince himself that Louis has never had a kiss this good, that it’s not just the alcohol. That he’s special, that this is different.

Louis drops his hands from Harry’s hair and slips them under his shirt instead, pressing his warm fingertips into the boy’s cool skin. Harry pulls back from the kiss and Louis tries to follow with his lips, whining a little bit in an extremely tempting way. Harry just starts peppering his jaw and neck with kisses though, which seems to satisfy the older boy. He leans his head back to give Harry more access, so he just goes about sucking a bruise onto Louis’ neck, biting gently at the skin to see what kind of reaction it’ll get out of him. He’s pretty sure the nails clawing at his back means Louis likes it.

Then his stomach twists. And not in a 'butterflies fluttering' kind of way but in a 'I've drank too much on an empty stomach' way.

Harry pulls back and groans a little.

“No,” Louis pouts, “come back.” He tries to drag Harry back in and reattach their lips, but Harry shakes his head, clutching his stomach.

“I don’t feel so good.” He stumbles; almost falling off the bed, but manages to get off without breaking anything. He’s just barely made it to the toilet when he throws up.

He had been pretty sure Louis was drunker than him, but when he looks up, there he is. Louis wets a washcloth and presses it to Harry’s head. It’s nice and cool and Harry lets his eyes droop shut as Louis starts cleaning him off. He’s only barely aware of Louis pulling him to the bed, though he does manage to shake his head when Louis tries to pull of his jumper.

Then Louis is curling up next to him and he’s drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just needed to point out that harry doesn't /actually/ have a bald spot. there's just a spot on the back of his head where his hair is thinner from his step-dad grabbing at it and pulling his hair out so often. so, yeah. i didn't know if that came across like i wanted it to.


	6. Missing Out On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for some minor physical abuse in this chapter. 
> 
> this is probably my favorite chapter so far :) i hope you guys like it. 
> 
> major thanks to precious-lou on tumblr for editing this for me x

Harry wakes up with a pounding headache and the worst stomach ache of his life. He’s lying on his front with his face pressed into a damp pillow, but when he opens one eye he can make out a little bit of soft light coming in from the window. The telly is on in the background, something like morning cartoons, and he hears hushed voices.

Turning his head a little bit, Louis and Liam come in to view. They’re sitting on the edge of the other bed, talking. He can’t make out what they’re saying exactly, but he thinks he hears his name and Liam's tone sounds a bit disappointed.

A strange feeling makes its way through Harry. A cross between anxiety and regret and nausea. He groans to let the others know he’s awake, and buries his face back in the pillow.

“Someone had a bit too much to drink, eh?” Liam asks. His voice sounds off, but he's chuckling.

Harry flips him off without lifting his head, but Liam just laughs harder.

“That’s what I thought. I warned you, but nobody listens to me.”

“Because you’re no fun,” comes Louis’ voice, sounding closer than it was before.

They both sound much more relaxed than they were a minute ago when they thought Harry was asleep.

“How come you’re not hung over?” he asks Louis, managing to roll over onto his back.

The older boy is sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed now. He pats the sheets by Harry’s feet and chuckles. “I am. I just handle it better than you.” He throws Harry a bottle of pills, something for his headache. “Those’ll help.” Harry nods his head in thanks and swallows three down dry. “You only need to take one, Harold.” Louis narrows his eyes, looking disapproving. “Read the label for crying out loud.” His eyes are twinkling with amusement though.

Medicine has never affected Harry like it’s supposed to, and he shrugs. His gaze drags over Louis, eventually landing on a love bite. It’s in the juncture between Louis’ neck and shoulder, bright purple with actual indents where teeth must have been. The sight causes Harry to still, feeling like his insides have gone frozen. What exactly did he miss out on the night before?

He looks at Liam, but the boy avoids eve contact and stands up. “So, who’s hungry?”

They both manage to groan, and Louis throws a pillow in Liam’s amused, unsuspecting face.

“Rude,” Liam comments. He’s smiling though. “We better get some food and head out soon if we want to make it back before noon.”

Oh right, Harry remembers, he’s going home today.

He groans again, covering his face with a pillow. This time, though, the groan is real, and he tries to ignore Louis and Liam’s laughter.

“What even happened last night?” he asks.

There’s only silence so he drops the pillow and sits up on his elbows.

“You don’t remember anything?” Liam asks slowly. Louis shoots Liam an odd look so quickly Harry almost misses it.

He shakes his head. “No, not really.” His memory is a blurry mess. He remembers parts; throwing up and Louis putting him into bed. He remembers dancing, but that’s about it. “For some reason I can’t get Bon Iver out of my head.”

Louis laughs a little at that. “Yeah, who knew you were such a good singer.” He winks, though, so Harry can't tell if he's just messing with him or not. 

“Oh, God, I didn’t. Did I?”

They both nod. “‘fraid you did,” Liam says. “Totally off tune, too, but you weren’t that bad.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

Liam and Louis keep exchanging odd looks and Harry’s head is pounding, so he heads towards the bathroom. “I’m gonna go shower.”

As soon as the door is shut, he hears their voices pick up again quietly. He’s pretty sure he hears one of them say his name again. His stomach twists uncomfortably so he starts the shower and gets in.

~*~*~*~*~

The goodbye is a bit awkward, at least on Harry’s part. He was pretty sure Louis was going to hug him again, and had even been trying to prepare himself for it mentally all morning, but it turns out he’s got nothing to worry about. Louis just smiles, then he and Liam wave him off.

As soon as he’s on the train, he watches them turn around, heading towards their own train. There’s a moment where he thinks Louis shoots the train one last fleeting glance, but he can’t be sure. Louis wouldn’t do that anyways, why would he? Harry’s sure he’s just imagining things.

He finds a seat and settles in, getting out his headphones and putting them in his ears.

~*~*~*~*~

He gets a hero’s welcome home, if 'hero's welcome' means a quick hug from his mum on her way out the door as she claims she didn’t know he’d be home so soon, and then his step-father knocking him around a bit to make up for lost time.

He doesn’t leave his bed for the rest of the day, checking the new bruises on his ribs and making sure he didn’t break anything. He keeps glancing at his phone every few minutes to see if Louis has texted him or not. Other than the _have a safe trip home_ he got on the train though, his inbox has remained empty.

~*~*~*~*~

Over the next week or so they don’t talk much. He’s not used to texting Louis first, but he does it anyways, feeling more awkward with every letter he pushes. Eventually he just gives up and tries to think of reasons for Louis' strange behavior.

It’s not that Louis’s ignoring him, he’s not. Before, his texts would come minutes or seconds after Harry sent them. They would have smiley faces and half-arsed suggestive comments. He would send Harry _the most_ random of all comments about anything and everything going on around him. Now . . . well, he’s lucky if he gets a reply within the same hour he sent the text, and they’re usually one word: ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘uh huh.’ And it’s _always_ Harry texting him. Never the other way around.

He can’t help but think he did something wrong. It’s the only explanation. Maybe Louis’s realized what a low life he is, has finally come to learn Harry doesn’t deserve happiness or friends or any of the good things life has to offer.

It’s not until a week and a half later that he finally learns why Louis’s been acting the way he has.

It starts with a text to Harry, the first one he’s initiated since Manchester. Even then, it’s void of any real _Louis-charm_ , just a couple sentences informing Harry that he’s going out again, but this time he’s handing his phone over to Liam so he doesn’t do anything stupid with it.

Harry frowns a little and replies quickly with _too bad, I’ll miss all the half-naked boys._

It’s when Louis texts back an obviously sarcastic _ha ha very funny_ that he starts to think _that_ has something to do with it all. So instead of texting him, Harry calls him.

“You know I have no problem with you being gay, right?” is the first thing out of his mouth when Louis answers. That actually hadn't been how he'd planned on starting the conversation, but it's too late to take it back now. 

“Hello to you, too.” There’s a brief moment of silence. “Uh, well – I mean, I wasn’t sure.” Louis’ voice is unnaturally quiet. Harry can faintly hear cars and voices in the background.

“I told you I wasn’t a homophobic twat,” he reminds him.

“Well yeah, but,” the other boy pauses, “that doesn’t mean . . . I mean I know I can be a little. . .” He sighs. “I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Harry knows exactly what Louis's referring to now. “You didn’t.” It’s a half-lie really, but that doesn’t matter. It wasn't Louis being gay that bothered him, it was the  _touching_ that Harry's just not use to. “I mean it. You don’t. I’m . . . me too.”

There’s a long silence that feels like minutes instead of seconds. “You too what?” Louis finally asks, slowly.

He takes in a deep breath, peers out his door to make sure his mum or step-dad isn’t lurking on the other side. When he gets back to bed he says, “I like guys, too.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. The first time he’s ever acknowledged it as the truth. He’s usually tried to ignore the fact that he’s attracted to guys, tries to forget about his step-father’s hard hitting words about being a cocksucker; he’s always acted like it was all just a phase or something he’d grow out of . . .

“I like girls, too, though,” Harry clarifies. “Or, you know, anyone really. Doesn’t matter.”

Louis sounds relieved when he says, “Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve just . . . never told anyone before.”

“I feel honored.”

Harry manages to chuckle a little. “I trust you. And I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“Sorry,” Louis immediately apologizes. “That was my fault. I was being a major twat.”

“You were,” he agrees jokingly. “But it’s alright, I forgive you. Whatever I did to make you feel that way . . . I’m sorry.”

"Don't worry about it. It was all me." Louis laughs. “Okay, well I’ll make sure to send you loads of pictures of half-naked or fully naked men to make up for it.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“And Harry? Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what Louis is thanking him for, but before he can ask, the line is dead.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s four in the afternoon. His mum’s gone to the store and Harry’s home alone. For the past half hour, he’d been strumming on his acoustic guitar, just messing around, but now it sits on the couch beside him. Instead, he’s got his notebook open in his lap. It’s old and tattered, but it’s his favorite of all the ones he uses to write lyrics or poems or just random thoughts in. Its orange – his favorite color – and there’s a big tear across the back. The front is lined with various circles from when he’s used it as a coaster. It’s bent from being shoved under his mattress or pillow hurriedly. He’s had it for _years_. The first page holds the very first song he ever wrote. There are no edit marks or notes. He wanted to keep it that way, just the way he had scribbled it that day when he was eleven years old.

He flips to the back, to one of the few blank pages left, and taps his pen against the page, deep in thought. He’s had a tune stuck in his head for a few days now, some words here and there, but he hasn’t quite figured out how to piece it all together.

He’s been writing a lot lately, whenever he has the chance. He’s had a lot on his mind, stuff he wants – no, _needs_ – to get down on paper.

He uncaps the pen and presses it to the notebook.

_Any place you’re going is where I wanna be,_

_And I know without you I’d be incomplete._

_I don’t know how you do your thing, no,_

_But you do it to me –_

A hand clasps down on his shoulder and he jumps, dropping his notebook and sending the pen flying across the living room.

“What’re you doin’ there?”

It’s Pete, apparently back from work early. He tightens his grip on Harry’s shoulder when he doesn’t respond right away, and the boy freezes momentarily under the touch.

Then Harry shrugs and pulls away. “Nothing, just writing.” He grabs for his notebook on the floor, but Pete beats him to it.

“What’s this?” he hums, flipping through the pages. He laughs abruptly, loudly. “Could you be anymore of a fag?” he asks, laughing, and before Harry can stop him, he’s ripping the notebook in half.

Well, trying to rip it in half. It’s pretty sturdy, even with how old it is, so he can only rip through part of it. The cover stays intact.

Harry yells out though, reaching for and pulling it out of his grasp. “Hey! Don’t!”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Pete lets the notebook go though, and Harry sticks it in his back pocket.

He turns around, ignoring Pete, and starts looking for his pen. When he finds it near the television, he puts it in his pocket too.

“When’s your mum gonna be home?” Pete asks.

“Soon,” Harry lies.

Pete narrows his eyes like he can read right through the younger boy. Harry doesn’t even know why Pete’s asking, he’s got Anne’s work schedule down.

Just when Harry thinks Pete’s going to let it go, he reaches over and slaps him across the face.

Minus the first time he babysat, Pete has never really hit him somewhere his mother could see or was noticeable. There was one time when his temper got the best of him and he shoved him pretty hard. Harry, being the klutz he is, fell and broke his nose on the steps. Harry told everyone he had just fallen down the stairs and they all bought it.

This is different though, Pete’s not even drunk. Harry holds a hand up to his face where it stings and walks past him.

Pete lets him go.

He runs up the stairs and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

There’s a text from Louis on his phone and, ignoring the message, he immediately types out _When are we going to get together again?_

Louis’ response is almost immediate.

 _Awe, do you miss me Hazza?_ _;) x_ And then a couple seconds later, _What’re you doin over break?_

~*~*~*~*~

Harry stands on the porch of the Tomlinson household, feeling on the verge of throwing up or passing out.

They had made all the plans quickly. Louis had told him it was actually his mum’s idea that he come visit them. When Harry told his own mum she had agreed immediately, thinking it was a wonderful idea. She didn’t say anything, but he could see it in her eyes; she’d always been worried about him, never hanging out with friends after school much, always secluded and overly independent. Harry thought he’d been doing his best to hide it but apparently his best wasn’t good enough. Big surprise there.

So now here he is: his bag over his shoulder, happy to be out of his house for an entire week.

And he can’t even ring the fucking doorbell.

It turns out, he doesn’t have to. A head of blonde hair peeks out through the curtains hanging in front of the window and then he hears voices and the stampeding of feet. The door flies open and Louis stands on the other side, looking out of breath, but grinning from ear to ear.

“Harry, what’re you doin’ just standin’ out here like a creeper?” He laughs though, grabs Harry’s hand, and pulls him into the house.

Harry only has a split second to look around the foyer – pictures hanging up all over the walls – before he’s accosted by two little girls. They peer up at him with curious, identical eyes. One crosses her arms over her chest and the other stares up at him with her head tilted to the side.

“Who are you?” the one with her arms crossed asks. Phoebe, he’s guessing.

“I told you he was coming,” Louis says. “This is Harry. Harry this is -”

“Phoebe and Daisy,” Harry finishes for him. “Louis’s told me _all_ about you.”

This seems to please them. They both relax. “Did he tell you we’re six-years-old now?” Phoebe holds up six fingers. “We’re in primary school and we’re putting on a play this week and you and Louis get to come see it.” She grabs onto Harry’s hand and starts pulling him down the hall, past the living room. Daisy follows along more quietly, and Louis gives him an apologetic look. “Louis says he’s going to record it, but I think Lottie should because Louis moves around too much. Are you hungry Harry? Our mum’s making lunch –”

“Louis?” comes an older female voice. “Did I hear . . .?”

And then a woman who can only be Louis’ mother appears, smiling, an apron tied around her waist. Her hair's the same shade as the twins' and she has bright, glistening eyes. Another girl stands behind her, practically hiding behind her mother.

“I thought I heard voices!” Louis’ mum exclaims, walking forward to greet them.

“Mum, this is Harry,” Louis says.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Tomlinson. Thanks for having me.”

She laughs. “You can call me Jay.” She closes the distance between them and pulls him in for a quick hug.

That he hadn’t been expecting, but he manages not to flinch this time.

“And this is Fizzy,” Louis says, nodding towards the younger girl. She smiles shyly and Harry waves a little awkwardly. “And Lottie is –”

“Upstairs still, I think,” Jay says. She starts to turn around. “Harry, hon, you can come join me in the kitchen. Lunch is almost ready.”

Louis starts stomping up the stairs, hollering “Charlotte!” as he goes.

“Okay.” Harry follows Jay, Fizzy, and the twins into the kitchen.

“Fiz, will you set the table. Daisy, Phoebe, help her, please.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks, looking around the room, feeling just a little out of place.

Jay smiles but shakes her head. “No, that’s quite alright.”

Louis eventually returns with Lottie in tow. She’s the oldest of the girls, Harry remembers, and her blonde hair nearly reaches her waist.

“Hello Harry,” she says. “Louis doesn’t shut up about you. Are you guys dating or something?”

Harry chokes out a half-laugh, half-cough, and Louis glares down at his sister, pushing her towards the table.

“He wishes,” Harry replies, with a wink in Louis’ direction.

The older boy’s jaw drops open, clearly taken by surprise. “Well aren’t you just full of it.”

“I only speak the truth.” Harry starts to sit down but Louis shakes his head, pulling him into a different chair.

“That’s Fizz’s seat,” he explains. “You can sit next to me.”

Lunch is an interesting event. Never has he experienced such a loud meal. It’s nice, though, there’s always something to distract him from the food on his plate. Someone is constantly talking or arguing or laughing, and at one point, Phoebe “accidentally” throws a spoonful of mashed potatoes at Lottie and thus starts a food fight.

“I’m starting to see where you get it from,” he whispers to Louis, who only laughs and flicks him with gravy.

Jay eventually gets everyone to settle down. She looks exhausted and only then does he remember the family’s in the process of going through a divorce. None of them had really let it show, but Harry realizes the seat he’s sitting in had probably once been filled by their father. Jay smiles in his direction though, easing his nerves. It’s contagious and Harry can’t help but smile back.

“So Harry, what do you like to do?” she asks.

“He likes to play guitar and watch Doctor Who and talk to me,” Louis answers matter-of-factually, grinning mischievously.

“Thank you, _Harry_.” His mum laughs. She turns her eyes back to Harry. “Well?”

He shrugs. “That’s about it really. I work at a bakery part-time. I like to cook.”

“You never told me that,” Louis interrupts, frowning like this actually really upsets him.

“You never asked.”

Louis narrows his eyes, but says nothing.

“Do you have any sisters?” Phoebe asks.

Harry nods. “I have an older sister. Her name’s Gemma.”

“That’s it?” Phoebe looks astonished. “Your house must be so _boring_.”

He chuckles. “A little. She’s away at school, so it’s just me and my mum . . . and Pete.”

“What about school?” Jay asks. He’s glad she skipped over the ‘and who is Pete’ question, most people don’t, and that’s just an awkward moment waiting to happen.

“Well . . .” He looks around the table, feeling uncomfortable with all the attention on himself. “I’m actually trying to finish early. I’m a year ahead, so I’ll graduate next year, sooner if I can help it.”

This time Louis actually _sets down his fork_. It clatters loudly against his plate, and he turns to glare at Harry. “You didn’t tell me that either.”

Harry shrugs again. “I didn’t want to jinx it?” he reasons.

Louis huffs and goes back to his food. Lottie laughs. “Awe, are you upset your boyfriend keeps things from you?”

“Lottie,” Jay warns, and the blonde presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

Harry chuckles a little and grins in her direction.

Everyone finishes before him, which isn't unusual. He can’t help but pick at his food a little. He tries to eat as much as he can, but he gets full quickly and ends up pushing most of it around his plate anyways.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry, Harry?” Jay asks as the girls start clearing the table and Louis begins washing the dishes off.

Harry frowns. “Yeah, yeah. I just . . . had a big breakfast I guess. It was delicious though, thank you.”

She smiles.

“But you’re so thin,” Phoebe remarks, popping up beside him.

“Phoebe,” Louis scolds, “leave him alone.”

She sighs but skips off to join her sister in the living room.

Harry manages not to look down at himself, but can’t wonder _what the hell she’s talking about_. He’s not actually thin; he knows that, so why she would say something like that, he doesn’t know. There's no way she could tell anyway; he’s covered up in layers.

He offers to help with the dishes, but everyone shoos him away and Louis flicks water in his face.

“Go pick out a movie for us to watch,” he orders, his blue eyes sparkling. “Phoebe and Daisy will show you where everything’s at.”

There are cartoons playing on the telly, and Phoebe and Daisy both jump up from the couch to show him their collection of movies. They’ve got possibly every Disney movie in existence – some he hasn’t even heard of – and a large collection of romantic comedies and various musicals.

“What movie do you guys want to watch?” he asks.

They start fighting over which Disney movie is better. Daisy holds out Grease. “Louis will want to watch this.” Her voice is quieter than her sister’s, who says, “Who cares what _Louis_ wants to watch. _I_ want to watch The Little Mermaid.” Harry can’t help but chuckle a little.

He picks up Grease. “I like this movie. Let’s watch it.” Phoebe sighs but he can tell she’s not actually upset about his choice. She shows him where everything is and so he pops it into the DVD player and turns the telly away from cartoons.

Louis’ face lights up when he sees what they’re planning on watching. “Did they tell you that’s my favorite movie or are you just my soul mate?”

“Both,” Harry jokes and Phoebe says, “Eww, don’t marry Louis. He’s _weird_.”

Louis starts tickling her. “ _I’m_ weird? There are two of you! How am I the weird one?”

Phoebe tries to say something but Harry can’t understand her over all the laughing. He used to want a little sister or brother, but ever since things with Pete happened he'd thought it was for the best that he was the youngest. A warm feeling spreads through his chest watching Louis interact with his sisters.

Eventually Jay, Lottie, and Fizz come in and everyone settles down to watch the movie. When Lottie sees its Grease she groans and complains, “Not _again_. We watch this like every week.” She’s joking though, he’s pretty sure at least, and Louis points out that the last time they watched it was on his birthday, _so shut up, Lottie_. Jay has to get them to quiet down again.

He sits next to Louis on the couch, with the twins on his other side. Halfway through the movie Louis rests his head against Harry’s shoulder and then the twins start crawling all over him, fighting over who should get to sit in the curly haired boy’s lap.

“Louis wants to sit in his lap!” Lottie says. Louis throws a pillow at her and Harry’s half-convinced it’s going to start a pillow fight.

They hang out for the rest of the day, watching more movies and then kicking a ball around outside while Jay makes supper. Needing to go to the bathroom, Harry heads inside, meaning to go right back out after, but he ends up helping Jay cook. Louis comes in eventually – with the intent to see if Harry had ‘fallen in’ – and peers over his shoulder.

“What’re you making?” he asks.

“Fettuccini Alfredo. Have you ever had it before?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Sounds fancy.”

“It’s not. It’s just pasta.”

Jay’s cutting up vegetables for the salad. “I was just gonna make hotdogs but he kind of took over.”

Harry frowns. “Sorry about that.” But she laughs.

“No, I should thank you.”

“Yeah,” Louis chimes in, “We have hotdogs _all the time_.”

Jay replies by throwing a piece of cut up carrot at him.

“ _Mother_ ,” he remarks, sounding faux-appalled. “How dare you.”

“Louis, I’ve seen you throw food at every meal I’ve had with you,” Harry says, only half-paying attention.

“That’s not saying much,” he points out.

“I don’t think I’ve had a food fight since I was . . . well, never, actually.” Harry frowns.

“You’re missing out.” Louis picks up a piece of cut up celery and throws it at him.

“If you ruin this pasta, I will walk out that door and never come back,” he threatens.

Louis just rolls his eyes. “Such a drama queen.” He smiles though and heads back outside.

Everyone compliments him on how good the food is and Lottie says something about how it’s a good thing he can cook because Louis can’t – at all, really. Apparently he’s been known to burn the toast.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Louis asks Lottie. Harry’s still laughing at the story Fizz just told of Louis nearly burning down the kitchen when he tried to make his mum breakfast on her birthday a year ago.

Lottie shrugs a little. “Y’know, ‘cause he can cook for you . . . once you move in together . . . and get married.”

“Lottie, I swear, if you make one more joke about me and Harry, I’ll - - -”

“ _You’ll_? You’ll what?”

Louis just groans and throws a piece of pasta at her, hitting her square in the face. The sauce slides down her cheek and over her chin. Her mouth gapes open a little in surprise, but she wastes no time. She picks up a handful of salad and throws it back at him. Within minutes everyone at the table – minus Harry and Daisy, who cower under it, and Jay, who is just shaking her head – is involved in _another_ food fight.

“Do they do this a lot?” Harry asks Daisy.

She nods. “Lottie and Louis fight a lot, but not like mum and dad used to.”

He frowns. “You want to make a dash for it?” He holds out his hand and she looks at him contemplatively for a couple seconds before smiling and taking it. Her hand is small and a little sticky from the pasta, but he keeps a firm grip on it. They crawl towards the edge of the table. “Ready?” he asks and she nods. “Go!” They get up and start running towards the living room, ducking when someone throws pasta at them.

Later, when Jay forces everyone except for Harry and Daisy to clean the kitchen and table, Louis groans, complaining, and Harry tells him he should have joined them under the table.

“Actually, you’re the one who started the food fight, so it’s your entire fault.”

Louis sticks his tongue out at him. There’s a piece of pasta in his hair and Harry reaches for it, dumping it in the trash.

“You’ve got sauce there.” He points to Louis’ chin and the older boy starts licking around his mouth, trying to get it. Harry laughs, rolls his eyes, and rubs it away with the pad of his thumb.

There’s a moment then where they just kind of freeze, staring at each other, and Harry swears Louis starts to lean in. Lottie comes in though, muttering something like, “Told you so,” under her breath and sounding triumphant. When he looks back at Louis it’s like nothing ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics in this chapter belong to allstar weekend. xoxo


	7. Right Then and There

As the evening wears on, the younger girls start heading off to bed and Jay disappears for nearly an hour, tucking them in and reading them bedtime stories. Lottie, Louis and Harry hang out in the living room for a while longer, even though Lottie has school in the morning and she was supposed to be in bed thirty minutes ago. She doesn’t seem to mind the prospect of getting in trouble – again – and in a way, she reminds him of Louis.

The two of them, he’s learned, are very close despite their frequent disagreements. Harry knew this early on, just from the way Louis had talked about her. But he gets to see it first hand now as he watches them interact with each other. Louis talks about all the girls with a sense of fierce protectiveness, and Harry doubts he has a ‘favorite,' but there’s something in the way he is with Lottie that’s different than how he is with the others. Maybe it’s ‘cause she’s older, he’s not sure. But Louis relaxes a little more around her, like he doesn’t have to keep his guard up or a smile on his face twenty-four seven. He doesn’t have to pretend as much around her.

When Jay comes back downstairs, she narrows her eyes at Lottie. Without saying a word, the blonde stands up, heading upstairs with a farewell wave. Satisfied, Jay turns her attention to Harry, “I’ll pull out the couch for you in a minute, sweetheart. Let me just go get some blankets.”  
  
“Don’t bother, mum,” Louis says offhandedly, with a slight yawn. “He can just share with me.”  
  
“Is that okay with you?” she asks. When Harry nods in confirmation, she smiles. “Okay, in that case, I’m off to bed.” She bends down to kiss Louis on the forehead and then, surprising Harry, does the same to him. “Goodnight boys.”

They continue watching Doctor Who for a little bit in silence before Louis says, “Really if you don’t want to share a bed with me, I can pull out the couch for you. It's not a big deal.”

Harry chuckles and leans back. “It’s fine, Lou. We’ve shared before.” Louis looks confused, so he reminds him. “Back in Manchester, remember?”

“I thought you didn’t remember that night.”

He shrugs. “Bits and pieces came back to me.”

Louis stays quiet, but there’s a thoughtful look on his face; Harry knows he’s debating on whether or not to say whatever’s on his mind. Harry keeps his eyes on him instead of the telly. He’s much more interesting anyway.

“Just spit it out already," he says when Louis starts nibbling on his lower lip.

Louis sighs. “We, uh – well, we kind of . . . made out? That night. A bit. For a while, actually.”

Harry blinks a couple times, wondering if he heard him correctly. “We what?”

Louis just nods.

He wonders why Louis’s waiting till _now_ to tell him. For some reason, it eases some knot inside of him. “We made out and I don’t remember?” He vaguely remembers the love bite on Louis’ neck, and it dawns on him that he’s probably the one who left it there. (He'll pretend that doesn't satisfy him; it's much better than when he thought Liam was the one who left it there.) “Must not have been that memorable,” he jokes, trying to cover his discomfort. He’s not uncomfortable with the fact that he made out with Louis – part of him figured it was bound to happen eventually, not because Harry _likes_ him or anything, but because he’s definitely attracted to him. There’s no denying that.

Also Louis just seems like the kind of guy who makes out with people when he’s drunk. Actually, he seems like the kind of guy who makes out with people when he’s sober, too, just for the hell of it.

Really Harry just feels a bit weird about it because they’re friends. He wonders if Louis thinks this is going to change things between them. Does _he_ want this to change things between them? Also why can’t he remember? Why did he have to be drunk? He’d like to know if Louis’s a good kisser or not. Was he, himself a good kisser? He supposes he could always ask _. . ._

Louis elbows him in the side, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Ha ha, you’re so funny, Curly.” Then he starts tickling the curly haired lad, digging his fingers into the boy’s ribs. “I assure you, I am a _fantastic_ kisser.” Harry falls backwards so Louis is looming over him on the couch.

Harry chuckles and tries to push him off. “I wouldn’t know,” he says, gasping for breath, “I don’t _remember_.”

Louis stops his ministrations and tilts his head. “Let me remind you,” and then, as if they do this every day, as if it’s the most natural thing ever, he leans down and presses their lips together.

Yep, definitely the kind of guy who makes out with people for no apparent reason, except maybe to prove that he’s a good kisser.

It’s a sweet kiss, quick with no real heat to it, but nice. Louis’ lips are soft and Harry finds himself frowning a little when he pulls back.

“Not bad,” Harry remarks.

Louis frowns. “Not bad? _Not bad?_ I think I deserve a little more than ‘not bad.’”

Harry just smirks and shoves him off. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

The older boy wiggles his eyebrows in response. “Well I won’t say no to that.”

~*~*~*~*~

Harry wakes up with Louis pressed as close to him as humanly possible. The other boy has half the bed to himself but, no, he chooses to sleep practically _on top_ of Harry. He has an arm and leg slung around Harry’s body and his head resting in the crook of Harry’s neck. It’s stifling hot, and he tries to move away without waking Louis up. He’s never thought about whether or not he’d be much of a cuddler – just kind of assumed he wouldn’t be – but he’s surprised to find that, other than the overwhelming heat of Louis’ boy, he doesn’t actually mind it all that much.

He does manage to pry Louis off eventually, and when he gets out of the bed, he stretches out his limbs, cracking his back, and has a look around. Louis’ room had been dark the night before and they had kind of just lay down and passed out within minutes so he hasn’t had a chance to inspect it yet. The one thing that had caught his eye the night before was the glow-in-the-dark stars on Louis’ ceiling. They are now faded yellow and nearly blend in with the off-white color of the paint.

The rest of his room is a mess, which Harry’s not sure surprises him. There are clothes flung across everything, dishes on the dresser, and an empty pop can on the desk. He’s got a shelf with an impressive collection of CD’s and video games, band posters on the wall, and pictures and random memorabilia everywhere. There are photos of him and Liam; him and his mum; him and his sisters; just his sisters; just Liam; a couple other people Harry doesn’t recognize; and concert ticket stubs. When Harry gets a closer look he sees – yep, the ticket from The Script concert is up there too with a little happy smile jotted in the corner. His desk has textbooks that look like they’ve hardly been opened and a laptop with stickers covering every inch of it. Harry runs a finger over it absentmindedly. He’s always been kind of a perfectionist, especially when it comes to organization, but there’s something about Louis’ room that feels right. It’s almost an organized mess. It feels _lived in_.

The house is silent as he walks down the hall toward the bathroom. Jay is off at work and the girls are all at school because unlike him and Lou, they don’t have break this week.

He takes a quick shower, not wanting to use up all the hot water. When he gets back to Louis’ room, the older boy is still asleep, so Harry goes downstairs and hunts through the fridge and pantry before making breakfast.

Louis comes downstairs just as he’s finishing up. He smiles tiredly, taking a seat at the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“You do realize we're on _holiday_ , right?” he says. “We’re supposed to sleep in.”

Harry nods but doesn’t say anything. He’s a little surprised he slept as much as he did. “How do you take your tea?”

“With lots of sugar.”

 _Like you need it,_ Harry wants to say. Instead he just sets a plate of eggs in front of Louis and puts sugar in his tea before joining him with his own tea.

Louis digs into his food right away then glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye and down to the empty spot in front of him. "Aren't you hungry?" he asks.  
  
Harry shakes his head, because really _he isn't_ ; he ate enough last night. "I ate mine while I was making yours," he lies. The words slip out easily, without his permission. He wants to take them and shove them back in his mouth, down his throat and into his empty stomach. It's not the first time he's lied to Louis and that just makes him hate himself more. Louis just nods, though, and goes back to his eggs.

“What are we doing today?” Harry asks as a quick subject change.

“Sleeping,” Louis answers, then shrugs. “Dunno." And then, "Actually, I thought I'd show you around some of my favorite places, maybe hang out with Liam for a bit.”

Harry nods, taking a sip of his tea. “What do you usually do when you’ve got time off from school?”

“Sleep,” he answers, not missing a beat. He glares at Harry in a way that lets the younger boy know he wouldn’t have minded another couple hours in bed. When he looks away though, he’s smiling, so Harry assumes he’s not actually bothered all that much. Besides, it's not like Harry woke him up, he could have stayed in bed as long as he wanted to.

“Speaking of sleep,” Harry says quietly, looking at Louis out of the corner of his eye, “you are _awfully_ cuddly. You should warn a guy. I definitely would’ve taken the couch if I’d known.”

It's obvious he's teasing, but Louis goes bright red and doesn’t look up. “Sorry,” he mumbles then seems to decide now is a perfect time to shove as much egg into his mouth as possible. He looks up suddenly, eyes bright. “Anyways, you _talk_ in your sleep so there. We're even.” He speaks without swallowing, and Harry feels like he should be a little disgusted, but he's not.

“I do _not_ talk in my sleep," he argues.

“You definitely do, trust me. How would you even know anyway? You’re _asleep_.”

He frowns. “What did I say then?”

Louis shrugs. “Something about pie . . . or a crazy elephant? I wasn’t really paying attention on account I was _trying to sleep_.”

Harry smirks. “Whatever.” Louis takes another bite. “So does it bother Liam?” He’s still a little jealous of the two and how close they are. Obviously he and Harry have gotten on really well in a short amount of time, but it’s different when you’ve known each other for as long as Louis has known Liam. They must know everything about each other, Harry figures. Louis tells Liam things he doesn’t tell Harry and for some reason that just doesn’t sit right in his stomach.  
  
Also the question of whether Louis and Liam have ever made out is burning a hole in his throat.

“What, that you talk in your sleep? Why would he know? Or care, for that matter.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, that you’re so cuddly. Does that bug him?”

The older boy chuckles and runs a hand through his messy hair, making it stick out a little. “Don’t actually cuddle with Li that much,” he says. He fumbles with his glasses a little bit, pushing them further up his nose. “Guess he’s not that comfortable.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose.” He tries to play it off casually but inside he’s beaming. Harry – 1, Liam – 0. Actually it’s more like Liam – 1 million, but whatever, he’s catching up.

“I’m actually very upset by it,” Louis states matter-of-factually. “I need someone nice to cuddle up with at the end of the day.” He sighs over-dramatically.

“Awe, Lou. You can cuddle with me whenever you want.”

A small, mischievous smile spreads across Louis’ face. “You might want to watch what you say there, Hazza, I might actually take you up on that offer.”

~*~*~*~*~

“What did you bring that for?” Harry asks, staring into the boot of Louis’ car where, surrounded by trash and random odds and ends, is a guitar case. Just like Louis' laptop, the case is covered in stickers, most of them music related.

Louis shrugs, playing innocent. “I just thought if we got bored . . .” His voice trails off and he eyes Harry with a meaningful look.

“You think – I . . .” The younger boy shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh come on.” Louis rolls his eyes. “You played in a record shop in Manchester, how different is this?”

“Well, first of all, there was hardly anyone around.” He looks around the park quickly. “Which is clearly not the case right now. And secondly, I was just doing it to make you happy, so.”

Louis’ face lights up and he grabs the guitar case. “Well you can do it again and make me happy.” He shuts the trunk and starts heading across the grassy field close to where a dozen or so little kids are playing while parents and babysitters watch. “Besides, they’re little kids, they don’t care if you suck or not.”

Harry lets out an audible groan. “I cannot believe you’re making me do this.”

Turning around suddenly, Louis stares up at him, blinking his eyes a couple times. “You could say no. I’m not going to force you. I would be sad though.” He starts pouting over exasperatingly.

Harry glares. “Just give me the damn guitar.”

“Now, now, Harold, watch your temper; there are children nearby.” He’s smiling giddily though.

Ignoring him, Harry takes the guitar case and finds them a secluded spot on the grass, far enough away from the crowd of kids and adults.

“When did you start playing guitar?” Louis asks when they sit down.

Harry shrugs. He’s gotten out the acoustic and is fiddling around with it, tuning it by ear. “I learned how to play piano first, when I was in primary school. My mum realized how much I loved music, so she bought me a guitar for my tenth birthday.”

“Did you teach yourself?”

He nods. “Yeah, for the most part. Youtube videos helped some.”

“What other instruments can you play?”

Harry sighs. “Why so interested?”

Louis shrugs. “I don’t know. You fascinate me.”

The guitar is tuned now and Harry starts strumming it, not really playing anything, just messing around. He tries not to let Louis’ words affect him, doesn’t understand why someone as boring as Harry could fascinate someone like _Louis_ who is the complete definition of fascinating.

He thinks about telling Louis the truth, that every instrument he's ever _tried_ to play, he's been able to learn pretty quickly. Wants to confine in him that this isn't just a hobby to pass the time, that music is literally  _everything_ to him. He can't quite find the right words to express that, though. So instead he says, “The mandolin and I can play the drums a bit.” 

“Is that it?" 

He frowns. “No, but you’re going to make fun of me.”

The older boy rolls his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

Harry falls back against the grass and closes his eyes. “I can play the violin, too.”

“And that’s embarrassing?”

“I used to be in band, yeah, and people just kind of thought we were a dorky bunch, so.” He shrugs, opening his eyes. He’s still strumming on the guitar, only half-paying attention to what he’s doing. Louis doesn’t say anything and so they just sit there for a bit listening to Harry’s idle tune and the sounds of the kids screaming and laughing on the playground.

“Play me something,” Louis says suddenly, turning to look down at him.

“What do you want me to play?”

Louis shrugs. “Anything.”

So without really thinking about it, Harry starts playing an actual song, something he wrote not too long ago. He starts singing the words quietly under his breath, not sure Louis can actually hear him - _hoping_ Louis can't actually hear him. He keeps his eyes up at the sky for most of the song, but when he looks over, Louis is staring at him with a thoughtful look on his face.

“I really wanna kiss you right now,” he says when Harry’s done. The younger boy just shakes his head and laughs, thinking he’s just taking the piss out of him. “I’m serious!” Louis says, smiling.

He sits up slowly, setting the guitar beside him on the grass. "Okay."

“Can I?”

Louis looks so . . . hopeful, almost; Harry doesn’t even have to think, just nods. “Of course.”  
  
He’s reminded again of the fact that Louis is probably the kind of guy that kisses people just for the hell of it, not because it means anything, but Harry doesn’t care. It’s some kind of torture, to let himself kiss Louis, and he wants to keep doing it over and over again.

Louis places a hand on his knee and Harry can feel the heat all the way through his jeans. They lean forward at the same time. The kiss is slow at first, just barely there, but then Louis runs a finger over his jaw and Harry’s lips part. He forgets about the fact that they’re sitting so close to families and kids playing, forgets that people can probably see them. All he can think about is Louis and Louis’ lips and Louis’ taste. He tastes like the spearmint gum he chewed after lunch and green tea. He runs a hand through Harry’s curls, tugging just a little, and automatically Harry moans into the kiss, tries to pull Louis closer to him. Louis pulls back though.

“You’re good,” Louis says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“At kissing?” Harry asks a little dizzily, still trying to get over their random snogging session.

Louis laughs. “No, singing.”

“So I’m not a good kisser?”

“That’s not what I meant.” The older boy playfully punches him in the arm, rolling his eyes. “You could be on X-Factor or something.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get right on that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You don’t think you’re a good singer?” Louis asks, his eyes a little wide in disbelief.

He shrugs. “I dunno. I’m okay, I guess. I just get really nervous.”

“Most everyone gets a little nervous,” Louis points out.

“Yeah, well. I get ‘throwing up’ nervous. Panic attacks, fainting, the whole nine yards.” He scratches the back of his head. 

“You didn’t throw up just now.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, fixing it. “Yeah, well, it’s you." He shrugs his shoulders. "It’s different.”

Louis beams, his smile bright enough to rival the sun, then grabs his hand, interlocking their fingers. “Come on, let’s go. I want to show you something.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Why are we at your school?”

“This is my favorite place in the entire world.”

Harry stares at him incredulously. “You’re kidding, right? Your _school_? You?”

“Okay, so not my school, but it’s inside my school.” He ignores Harry’s blank look. “Just come on.”

They walk through the near-empty halls, only passing by a janitor and a couple teachers who give them odd looks, probably wondering why they’re here instead of out enjoying their freedom. Once in a while Louis will point out random things like, ‘that’s my math class’ or ‘that’s where Stan told this guy to fuck off last week.’ He laughs like he’s enjoying the memories and takes Harry’s hand again, intertwining their fingers. Harry doesn’t want to be cheesy, and he definitely doesn’t want to start thinking things like crush or boyfriend, but their hands seem to fit together perfectly, like the last puzzle piece clicking into place.

Harry can tell when they’re getting close to their destination because Louis picks up speed and gets an excited look on his face. He’s nearly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and keeps telling Harry to _hurry the fuck up, Curly, your legs are longer than mine_.

(Harry's legs _are_ longer, he realizes, and he's actually almost taller than Louis now.)

“We have all the time in the world,” Harry points out.

“Actually we don’t. We have . . .” Louis pulls out his phone. “Twenty-five minutes.” He groans under his breath and pulls Harry behind him faster.

“Twenty-five minutes until what?” he asks, but doesn’t get an answer. They stop outside two double doors and Louis looks up at him, smiles, and then pushes the doors open. "Your favorite place in the entire world is your school’s theatre?”

Louis nods, dropping Harry’s hand and walking down the aisle. Harry stays at the threshold, watching him. “This is where I performed Grease. It was the _best_ experience of my entire life.” He sighs contently and makes his way onto the stage. Harry follows behind slowly, still staying in the audience.

“Are you going to sing for me?” he asks, taking a seat.

Louis gives him a look that very blatantly says, ‘ _you must be shitting me_ _._ ’ “You didn’t sing for me, I don’t sing for you,” he huffs.

Harry’s jaw drops open. “Excuse me? I did sing for you.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Barely.” An idea seems to cross his face then because he turns to look at Harry and crooks his finger, beckoning the younger boy forward. “C’mere,” he says when Harry doesn’t budge.

“What do you want?”

Louis jumps off the stage and starts dragging him to the stairs. “You’re going to be the Sandy to my Danny.”

Harry shakes his head. “No way. I don’t sing in public places. Plus, it would totally be the other way around.”

“How do you figure?”

They’ve made it on the stage now and Louis cocks his hip, placing a hand there. Harry looks him up and down before giving him a pointed look.

“ _What_?” Louis asks.

“I’m just saying, you’re very, y’know . . .” He raises his eyebrows, looks the older boy over again, and gestures vaguely with his hands.

“Are you trying to say I’m very gay?”

Harry laughs and quickly shakes his head. “No. I wasn't going to say that. You’re just very . . . camp. If one of us was going to be the girl, it would be you.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, looking every bit the sassy fucker he is and not helping his case one bit. “You know, you can be very dramatic. I think you would be the girl.”

“I am not dramatic!” Harry argues. “And just for that, now I’m definitely not going to sing with you.”

Louis gets a very wicked grin on his face and starts edging towards Harry, wiggling his fingers like he's about to tickle him or something. Harry takes a step back. “Don’t even think about it,” he says, but Louis grabs onto his shirt.

“ _You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man_ ,” he sings.

“I thought I was supposed to sing the Sandy part?”

“ _I’m hopelessly devoted to you!_ ”

Harry laughs. “Will you pick a song and stick to it?”

Louis joins in with his laughter, but then sighs, turning to walk away from him. “It’s probably a good thing you won’t sing with me actually. You’d just end up making me fall in love with you or something,” he jokes . . . or Harry _thinks_ he’s joking. He’s not actually sure.

He licks his lips, looking Louis up and down again – this time more for himself – and thinks _fuck it_. “In that case . . .  _I got chills_ –”

Louis turns around immediately. “Hazza,” his tone is warning, but Harry doesn’t stop singing. He _wanted_ him to sing in the first place, didn’t he?

“ _They’re multiplying and I’m_ _lo_ _oo_ _sing_ _control_.” He walks forward, trying to close the distance between him and Louis. Louis keeps taking steps backward though, shaking his head. There’s a small hint of a smile on his face though.

“ _Haz_.”

“ _Cause the power, you’re supplying_. . .”

“Harry!” He really is grinning now. “I’m warning you.”

“ _It’s electrifying!_ ” And he tries to pull of the whole ‘electrifying’ move John Travolta does in the movie, but he doesn’t think it works out so well.

It doesn’t matter though, because then Louis is in front of him, in his space, and Harry can’t remember why he ever thought Louis being in his space was a bad thing. Louis grabs onto his partially unzipped hoodie, shakes his head and mutters ‘you idiot’ and then he’s crushing their lips together. Harry smiles against his lips before kissing him back, his hand instantly going to the back of Louis’ neck. Louis’ hands stay bunched up in his hoodie, and it’s nice, Harry can feel how reluctant the other boy is to let go; he wants this kiss just as much as Harry does.

And Harry’s, well, he’s tired of being alone and he’s tired of feeling so fucked up all the time. And sure, maybe this kiss doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a kiss, that’s all. They’re both decent kissers, they’re both interested in the same sex. Maybe Louis isn’t ready to come out, maybe the boys at his local pub aren’t exactly what he wants right now – or maybe they are, maybe they give him exactly what Harry’s giving him right now, just an escape from reality for a little while. Harry needs that too. That’s all this is.

Someone clears their throat and it’s safe to say it’s not Louis or Harry. They pull apart instantly and Harry looks over Louis’ shoulder. There's an older woman there with a clipboard and behind her – oh shit – behind her are about twenty or so kids. They can only be seven or eight years old. They’re all staring at the pair like one of them is about to sprout wings and fly off the stage or something.

Harry drops his hand from around Louis' neck - his fingers had somehow intertwined into his hair - and grabs onto Louis’ arm instead. He starts backing up. “Sorry about that. We’ll be out of your way.” He turns around quickly, pulling Louis after him. “You could have told me there was a chance a bunch of primary school kids were going to barge in on us."

Louis is grinning, looking completely unashamed. “I told you we had twenty-five minutes! ”

“Twenty-five minutes my ass.”

The older boy laughs. “Shh, Harry, we don’t want to violate their innocent minds.”

“Pretty sure we’ve already taken care of that.” His lips are still tingling. 

Louis’ amusement doesn’t end and he’s still chuckling and muttering under his breath when they get in the car and start back to his house.

“How come you were so sure I was a good singer?” Harry asks suddenly. “Ever since we started talking, you’ve argued with me about it, always wanting me to sing for you.”

“I heard you singing the first time we met.”

“I – You – _What_?”

“In the loo, you were singing _The Man Who Can’t Be Moved_.” Louis smiles like he’s remembering and looks at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “That’s when I knew.” He turns his attention back to the road. “I knew you were a good singer. I knew how special you were right then and there.”

And Harry, well, he has nothing to say to that.


	8. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this chapter took so long. (we just found out my mom has cancer, so updating wasn't on my list of priorities.) all the comments have been wonderful. you all are so amazing and thank you for reading this. i want to bake you all cookies x + also thank you to my mom who is awesome and actually gave me the idea for this chapter :'D

The rest of the week goes by way too quickly for Harry’s liking. They spend a lot of time at the park – with Harry playing his guitar and Louis chattering on about this and that – or with Liam. Sometimes they go to Liam’s house and play video games – Louis does end up kicking Harry’s ass at FIFA – and sometimes Liam comes over and they watch movies or Doctor Who or Skins. In the afternoons they hang out with the girls, watching them while Jay’s at work. They marathon movies and play football or go to the park and get icecream. Harry and Louis get tricked into having a tea party and Lottie takes a picture of them that she says she’s going to keep forever as blackmail.

Harry and Louis don’t have any more snogging sessions but Harry thinks something has definitely changed between them. Not in a ‘oh we’re practically dating now’ way but in a ‘things have to change because we’ve made out with each other so much’ way. There’s a charge between them; an electricity. Each touch is different, more alive. It’s not a bad thing either. They just share more knowing looks, carefree touches, and generally become a lot more at ease with each other. 

Harry keeps feeling Liam’s eyes on him though, like he _knows_. Though Harry doesn’t know how he could know. They’re not being obvious . . . he doesn’t think. Unless Louis _told_ him, but Harry doesn’t think he’d do that. It’s something private, something for them only.

Apparently they are obvious though. Liam corners Harry one day while Louis is in the kitchen making tea.

“So what’s going on between you and Lou?” he asks bluntly. Harry doesn’t think he sounds jealous exactly, but there’s definitely something there in his tone.

Harry instantly freezes up, keeping his eyes on the telly to hide the panic on his face. “What d’ya mean?”

He can just barely see Liam, raising his eyebrows, out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, something’s going on between the two of you and I’m his best friend so you should tell me.”

Harry wants to say ‘ _shouldn’t he be the one telling you, since you’re his_ best friend’, but shrugs instead. “Nothing, mate, nothing at all.”

Of course Liam doesn’t believe him. “LOU - - -” He starts to holler. Harry cuts him off though, clamping his hand around the other boy’s mouth.

“Okay, okay, calm down, Jesus Christ.”

“So something _is_ going on.” Liam looks more concerned than satisfied that he was right.

“Honestly? Not really, no.” Harry glances back in the direction of the kitchen. “Just keep – shh.”

“Okay, fine. Just don’t hurt him okay.” Harry opens his mouth to protest because _yeah right_ like he would _ever_ intentionally hurt Louis. Liam shakes his head though, stopping him from saying anything. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’m just telling you now: be careful, okay. Watch yourself. And if you hurt him . . . I’ll kill you.”

He sounds way too serious; Harry chuckles a little. “Yeah, alright, Liam.”

“I’m serious!”

“What’re you two talking about?” Louis asks, walking in with two cups of tea. He hands one to Harry and the other to Liam.

“About you,” Harry answers. “About how much we don’t like you or your tea,” he jokes, taking a sip. He actually loves the tea. It’s the best he’s ever had.  

Louis just rolls his eyes and starts talking about how _well then you can give it back_ and then what they should watch next when Harry refuses to give up the cup. Liam keeps giving Harry looks though and all he can think is _watch yourself watch yourself_ and wonder what the hell Liam had meant by that.

~*~*~*~*~

Friday is the day of the twin’s play. Jay takes the girls over to the school early to get ready and a little while later, Louis and Harry follow along behind.

The play is great, from what Harry can tell – he’s not actually paying much attention to it; he keeps getting distracted by Louis, who’s sitting next to him.

The older boy’s got a small camcorder and he’s recording the play. (Thankfully Lottie’s got one too because Louis, of course, keeps moving around and Harry doubts it’s going to get anything good.) He’s the happiest Harry has ever seen him. His smile, big and bright, never leaves his face and his eyes are shining. He keeps turning to Harry, nudging him in the side, and then pointing at the twins on stage as if to say ‘those are my sisters; look at my sisters.' He’s so proud.

And Harry just, he can’t stop staring.

After the play he and Louis wait outside. It’s a little chilly and starting to drizzle, but they’re both wearing jumpers and the cool air feels nice after being stuck in a sweaty auditorium with so many people for so long.

Louis still has the camera and he flips it on before turning it to Harry.

Harry instantly holds up his hands to cover his face. “Come on, Lou, put the camera away.”

“Harold,” Louis starts, reaching for Harry’s hands and pulling them away from his face. He doesn't let go of them. “What did you think of the performance?”

Harry sighs and turns to look straight at the camera. “It was brilliant. You were both amazing. Daisy, when you fell down at the end, I thought it was on accident; that’s how good of a job you did.”

Louis turns the camera to himself. “It’s true! He actually started to get up to see if you were okay. I had to stop him. I told him you had been practicing that fall for weeks.”

Laughing, Harry drops Louis' hand and takes the camera. “So Louis,” he keeps it pointed on the older boy, his voice turned serious. “What did _you_ think of your sisters?”

“It was terrible, completely awful. I disown both of you. Have your bags packed by Sunday. I want you out of the house.”

Harry laughs a little too loudly and shoves Louis in the shoulder. “Rude.”

Louis just flutters his eyelashes and tries to look completely innocent.

“What are you two _doing_?” someone calls suddenly and Harry turns around to see Jay walking towards them. “Louis Tomlinson, go get the car for him!”

He laughs again, handing Louis back the camcorder. “Yeah Lou, don’t make me wait out in the rain. _Gosh_.”

When Jay’s out of ear shot, heading towards her own car, Louis turns to him and whispers, “I thought _I_ was the girl?” Harry just sticks his tongue out at him, watching him walk away, before heading back inside to wait with the other girls.

The twins are off talking to other kids their age and Fizzy’s with them, so he goes to stand by Lottie, who picks up her camcorder as soon as he gets close, focusing it on his face.

“You really are related to your brother, aren’t you?”

She laughs but puts the camera down a little so it’s not directly on him. “It’s not even actually on.” He nods and there’s a couple moments of silence before she says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” he points out with a smile.

Lottie rolls her eyes. “Can I ask you a question without you giving me a cheeky answer?”

Sighing, he says, “Maybe.”

“What do you think of my brother?”

He freezes a little. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s nice, yeah?”

Harry chuckles a little. “Sometimes.”

Lottie doesn’t laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He sighs again and shrugs. “Yeah. Your brother is awesome. He’s my best friend.” He thinks back to what Liam said, about being Louis’ best mate, and wonders if it’s true.

“Even though you two haven’t known each other that long?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Sometimes people just click, I guess. You know how Louis is. He’s persistent. But it’s great. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” It’s true, too. His life would be completely different without the older boy. He doesn’t even want to think back to the days before they met and he wasn’t getting Louis’ silly text messages or out of the blue phone calls.

“Would you date him?” Lottie asks inquisitively.

Harry snorts. “What’s with the twenty questions?” She doesn’t answer, just gives him a look. He sighs. “Wouldn’t really want to risk ruining our friendship, honestly.”

Neither of them says anything else for a couple seconds.

He scratches his head then continues, “Anyone would be lucky to date your brother though, myself included.”

He doesn’t miss her smile. “So you like him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

There are a couple more minutes of silence, in which he thinks she’s done with the Q&A, but then she asks, quietly, “Do you love him?” Then, quickly, louder, “Like, as a friend, I mean.”

He turns so he’s facing her instead of the window he’d been peering out of. He doesn’t even have to think her question through, though he knows he probably should. And he definitely shouldn’t be saying this to Louis’ sister for the first time instead of Louis himself, but he can’t help the “Yeah, I do,” that tumbles out of his mouth. He’s surprised to find he means it, too. Louis has quickly and irrevocably, dug his way into Harry’s life.  
  
He can love Louis, like he loves his mom and his sister and his cat; it's not a big deal.

Louis calls him then, his loud Adele ringtone causing a couple curious heads to look his way. He’d forgotten to turn it on silent during the performance, and he thanks his lucky stars it didn’t go off during the play.

“Get your arse out here, Styles. Don’t keep your man waiting,” Louis says when he answers. “Oh and tell my sisters, mum’s right in front of me.”

He hangs up and passes on the message. It’s pouring outside now so they all kind of make a dash for the vehicles. Louis is tapping his fingers against the steering wheel when Harry jumps in.

“You’re getting my car wet.”

“Oh I’m so sorry. I’ll just dry myself off outside in the _pouring rain_ and get back in.” When Louis doesn’t respond, Harry frowns. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, ‘m just tired.”

Harry nods and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.

~*~*~*~*~

They go out for sundaes as a celebration for Daisy and Phoebe. It’s late, but it’s already stopped raining so they sit outside, watching the sun set and eating their ice cream on a little plastic patio table. The two six-year-olds run around the table and Harry thinks there’s going to be another food fight when Lottie throws her cherry at Louis, but he just picks it up and eats it. He doesn’t take the stem out of his mouth, keeps chewing on it, even after they’re all done, like some nervous habit. He’s just as subdued and when they finally get back in the vehicle to head home, Harry grabs Louis’ keys before he can start the car. He turns to face Louis, his back pressed up against the window.

“Lou, what’s going on?”

The older boy shrugs then looks up, his bright blue eyes meeting Harry’s green ones. They’re huge and sad, making him look so innocent and open in that one moment.

Harry’s heart lurches painfully in his chest.

Louis pulls the cherry stem out of his mouth – now tied into a knot, Harry notes – and focuses his gaze on it. He shrugs again. “I just don’t want you to go home, I guess.” He sticks the stem back in his mouth.

Harry thinks he nods, he’s pretty sure he does, but next thing he knows, he’s grabbing Louis by the front of his shirt and pulling him half over the console in the middle. He murmurs something like _I know, I know, me neither_ and then he’s pressing their lips together.  

~*~*~*~*~

When he wakes up Saturday morning the house is in absolute chaos and he legitimately thinks someone’s died until Louis starts laughing hysterically and informs him that his uncle’s coming to visit. Harry just kind of sighs in relief and starts helping everyone tidy up the house until Jay pops her head into the living room with this smile. Harry can read the question on her face without her having to say anything – which just goes to show how close he’s gotten to the family – and he goes into the kitchen to help her cook.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how close he’s gotten to the Tomlinson family. The twins crawl all over him like he’s another brother of theirs; Fizzy has attacked his hair on more than one occasion, even successfully putting about three hundred bows in it one night to Louis’ amusement; and Lottie jokes and teases him like he’s her brother's boyfriend – which, to be fair, Lottie _is_ under the impression they’re secretly dating.

It’s just . . . he’s never been this close and comfortable around people before. He’s still trying to get use to the way Louis makes him feel, like he’s normal and can be happy for a change. And how maybe he can be friends with Liam even though he’s still convinced the older boy is secretly in love with Louis or something.

Sometimes he still flinches when one of the girls or Louis touch him, and it doesn’t always go unnoticed, but they don’t ever say anything. He’s laughing more, smiling more, and just generally feeling better.

He still doesn’t eat a lot, most days managing to skip breakfast and only pick at his lunch. It’s still hard for him not to purge his dinner, but Louis’ constant distractions and the promise to himself that he’ll just restrict when he gets home, gets him through the week. He’s starting to forget what’s waiting at home for him, what his life is like outside the Tomlinson household.

But then the doorbell rings and the girls make a mad dash to answer it and standing on the other side is Louis’ uncle, Jay’s brother, John. And when Harry sets his eyes on the man after turning the corner out of the kitchen, it’s like everything just comes crashing down around him. He actually ends up freezing, feeling like all the air has been blocked off from his chest.

He looks nothing like Jay. John has dark hair and dark brown eyes and looks roughly the same age as Harry’s own mother . . . and step-father.

And really, there isn’t much of a resemblance between John and Pete, so he doesn’t know _why_ he’s reacting this way. But it’s like life is just laughing at him, sticking out its tongue and spitting on him. Who was he to think he could be happy, even for only a week.

“Harry,” Louis calls, sounding impatient. “Come here and say hi.”

He unfreezes and walks down the hall way, forcing a smile onto his face.

The older man sticks out his hand and Harry presses his lips together before shaking it, feeling like every nerve ending in his body is on fire. Louis gives him an odd look, but he ignores it, nodding his head and saying hello.

They end up in the living room, Louis on one side of him, John on the other. Every time the older man even so much as brushes up against him, Harry freezes, waiting for the moment when his fist connects or he slaps him or shoves him down onto the ground, because in his experience, that’s how older men treat him; that’s how he deserves to be treated by them, by anyone, really.

And then John makes a joke about football or something – Harry’s not actually listening – and he clasps his hand down on Harry’s shoulder, asking him a question. Everything comes back to him then, all the feelings and memories just wash over him and he feels like he’s drowning, gasping for air. He flinches, pulls back, and stands up quickly.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I, uh, have to go to the bathroom.” Then he practically stumbles out of the room, ignoring the odd looks that follow him.

Fifteen minutes later he’s _still_ in the bathroom, still panicking and not breathing normally and he’s already thrown up three times and he doesn’t think there’s anything left in him to get rid of.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Haz.” It’s Louis. “Are you alright?”

Harry presses the palms of his hands to his eyes too harshly, brief flashes of light flicker behind his lids.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “Just don’t feel all too well I guess.”

Louis sounds worried when he speaks again. “Do you need anything?”

“No. I’ll just probably go lay down for a bit, yeah?”

There’s a couple beats of silence. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come and check on you in a little while.”

Harry waits till he hears Louis walking away and then gets up on his shaky legs, almost throwing up again. He cracks open the door, checks both ways to make sure no one’s around, then heads to Louis’ room. He buries himself under Louis’ duvet, squeezing his eyes shut and tries to think about anything except for the fact that he has to go home tomorrow, that there’s no escaping this. It’s going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry wants to cry the next afternoon when it’s time for him to go home. He’s so close to just saying, _it’s cool if I live with you, right?_ He’s pretty sure Louis wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t even have to tell them anything. He could just forget everything’s that happened and move on with his life. But then he thinks of his mum and he definitely doesn’t want to leave her there alone with Pete, even though he’s never really shown interest in hurting her or Gemma. That doesn’t mean he won’t start if Harry just ups and disappears.

Louis and Jay ask him if he feels better about a hundred times and he says yes over and over again even though he’s definitely _not_ fine, is the furthest from fine or any aspect of fine.

Louis drives him to the train station and they just kind of stand there for a couple minutes, both at a loss for words. Louis keeps reaching out, like he wants to touch Harry or something, but draws his hand back at the last minute. Harry bites his lip, looking down at the boy with sadness in his eyes, and then Louis finally gives in and pulls Harry in for a bone crushing hug.

It’s possibly the best hug he’s ever gotten in his entire life. He could very easily just stay there and hug Louis for as long as possible, put off going home so he doesn’t have to deal with all of this. Louis rubs his back soothingly, almost like he knows what’s going through his mind, and it’s just too much so Harry has to pull back. It’s time for him to go anyways.

“I’ll miss you,” Louis murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. And then he’s gone.

~*~*~*~*~

When he gets home his mum hugs him so tight he feels like he’s cracking open at the seams. She rub his back just like Louis did, and it makes him want to start crying all over again.

They spend the rest of the day together, being couch potatoes and watching the soap operas she’s obsessed with and then a rom-com he’s obsessed with.

Pete just kind of lets them be, giving Harry dark looks, but doing his own thing.

That night his mum even tucks him into bed, like he’s a little kid again, and he wants to ask her what’s wrong, because something just doesn’t feel right. She just smiles though and kisses his head, much like Jay had that first night and Harry has to try _again_ to keep himself from crying.

“I love you,” she says, with her lips pressed to his forehead. Harry’s first instinct is to ask _why_ because he honestly doesn’t understand. He knows she’s his mum and parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, but his father didn’t and his step-father doesn’t, so why does she?

She leaves before he gets the chance to say he loves her back.

He pulls one of his pillows around beside him, wraps his arms around it, and buries his face in it as he sobs, trying to get rid of the cold, stone block in his chest.


	9. Never Be Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how the schooling system works over there so. i kind of just went off what i've read. also MAJOR trigger warning for this chapter: eating disorder, physical abuse, rape, suicidal thoughts and attempt. this chapter is really intense, but i'm actually quite pleased with it.

The days go by sluggish and Harry grudgingly returns to school. Everything’s okay for a while. Louis texts him repeatedly about how boring his life is now that Harry is gone and Harry makes sure to ask about his sisters and mum, see how they are doing. They return to talking on the phone after school and texting near constantly. Louis has to buckle down because he’s getting closer to taking his A-Levels, though, so Harry tries not to distract him _too_ much.

And just like Harry promised himself, he restricts his diet even more. In the past Harry would just skip lunch during the week and then purge his dinner if it was too big of a meal or if he felt sick. Now he skips breakfast _and_ lunch, and barely touches his dinner. Pete doesn’t care and his mother doesn’t notice, too busy with work and constantly on the phone with family. She’s distracted, stressed, and it’s enough that they end up getting pizza or take out most nights; Harry can sneak off to his room to ‘eat’ instead of sit in front of the telly with Pete or the dinner table while his mum talks on the phone.

Harry’s always lost weight quickly when he starves. He doesn’t know if that’s the case for everyone, but he’s always marveled at how easy it is to drop down half a stone just by not eating for three or four days. His weight has always fluctuated though, due to eating breakfast and then not always having enough time to purge right after dinner. He’ll go a couple days eating semi-normally and gain all the weight he lost back. It never stays off and that’s always bothered him.

He’s nearly gone the entire week, though, without eating anything besides the raw veggies his mum always buys him, and he watches his weight drop quicker than he’s ever seen it before.

He doesn’t know if the number on the scale pleases him or disappoints him. There was a point where the number would make him cry, because it wasn’t like he _wanted_ to lose weight or stop eating, he just needed to punish himself and he thought that’s what he deserved. But it’s moved away from that, gotten to where the numbers are never enough; he’s always telling himself he’s still too fat, still disgusting to everyone who sees him, can’t imagine why anyone wants to talk to him or be near him.

He always thinks _just a little bit more_ and he’ll be fine, everything will be better. He’ll be capable of love, of friendship; maybe even then he’ll be small enough Pete won’t hassle him anymore. He’ll think _finally you’ve done something right_ and they’ll all be happy.

It’s worth it for the way he has to literally hold himself together on shaky feet till he gets to his bedroom, where he can lay down and cover his body – already donned in pajama bottoms and a jumper – to warm himself up.

The stomach pains, yelling at him and twisting his insides, are just a reminder of how good he’s doing, how much better everything is this way.

But it’s not enough, he knows. It’s never enough.

He'll never be enough.

~*~*~*~*~

One Sunday in the middle of May, Harry’s mum comes into his bedroom and drops a bomb on him.

“Grandma isn't doing too well,” she says, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed and smoothing out his duvet like a nervous habit. Everything clicks inside his head. He’d tried asking her what was going on with all the phone calls back home to her siblings and mum, but she’d just brushed it off with a _nothing to worry about, honey_. “I’m thinking about going to visit her for a few days.”

Harry, who had had his face covered by his pillow and was groaning about how it was the weekend and he should be allowed to sleep in, sits up abruptly, causing the pillow to drop into his lap. “What? How long?”

She shrugs and stands up. “I don’t know. Maybe three or four days?”

“Can I come with you?”

She frowns. “I know you want to see your grandma,” which isn’t technically the case, but _sure_ , he thinks, _let’s go with that_ , “but I don’t want you missing any more school.”

“I’ve only missed one day,” he argues.

“Yeah and if you come with me, you’ll fall behind. Aren't finals coming up?” She walks to the door, turning to look at him at the last second. “Sweetie, I’m only going to be gone for a little bit. Pete will be here and you can cook for yourself. It’ll be fine. She’s just having some memory lapses and I want to check on her.”

He feels like his heart is racing inside his chest. Three or four whole days without his mother, left alone with Pete. That’s hell. That is pure hell. That is not fine, that is definitely not fine. It’s far from fine, the opposite of fine.

(He does, he really does, hope that his grandma is okay, but he can’t worry about that right now.)

“When are you leaving?” he croaks out.

“Tomorrow probably, before you go to school, but you’ll be awake so you can say goodbye.”

He nods slowly and she leaves the room. He lies back down on his bed and wonders what the probability is of him being able to stay in bed for the next four days.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry doesn’t go to school.

Not the first day, or the second day, or the third day.

Pete uses the empty house to his advantage, smacking at Harry every chance he gets, fucking him into the mattress – _his_ mattress, the one him and Harry’s mum sleep on.

Monday is the ninth day he’s gone without really eating, so he feels weak and probably wouldn’t have gone to school anyways. The second Harry’s mum is out the door, Pete’s shoving him up against the wall, pressing at his hipbones through Harry’s pajama bottoms hard enough to leave bruises.

“We’re going to have so much fun,” he says before letting go and heading off to work. Harry just kind of slumps down to the floor and doesn’t do much of anything the entire day. Manages to snack on some salad, but that’s about it. When Pete gets home, he’s on him at once, forcing him to drink beer with him and then cutting off his air supply by wrapping his hand around his throat.

For some reason, Harry’s always thought the drinking had something to do with Pete weakening him. He’s pretty clumsy when he’s sober, but when he’s drinking – he never really gets more than slightly buzzed, nothing like the time with Louis – he’s constantly running into furniture, trying to get away from Pete, and slurring all his words. And Pete just sits back and laughs like it’s entertainment.

After they’ve gone through a six pack of beer, Pete turns Harry around, presses him face first into the table, and fucks him right there in the dining room.

 

Tuesday’s pretty much the same. Pete starts ordering him around, telling him to clean up the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen. Harry’s scrubbing dishes at the sink when Pete comes up behind him, shoves him and causes Harry to fall. His head collides with the counter top and when he hits the linoleum floor there's a loud _clunk_ and everything goes blurry.

Harry's pretty sure he's going to die right then and there, and he finds he doesn't really mind.

 

By the third morning, Wednesday, he’s bruised and cut and he’s pretty sure he has a concussion from the way Pete pushed him around the night before. He wakes up with his head throbbing, still in the kitchen. His ribs ache when he moves and he’s pretty sure he’s covered in dried blood.

Pete walks into the room and Harry doesn’t even bother trying to move. He couldn’t if he wanted to. There’s no point anyway. It’s like all the fight had left him with that last shove.

The older man squats down and pulls on the back of Harry’s head, effectively pulling out small, curly hairs and forcing the boy to stare up at him. “Your mum called. Wanted to know how you were doing. I told her you were just great. Very busy though, couldn’t talk. She’s not coming home until Saturday so,” he lets go of Harry’s head and it hits the floor, sending sharp pain through his skull, “more fun for us.” Pete runs a finger down the side of the younger boys face then gets up. “Get yourself cleaned up before I get home. You’re a fucking mess.” _And doesn't that just describe him perfectly?_ he thinks, _a fucking mess_.

Pete's gone between one blink and the next.

Harry lays there for what he’s pretty sure are hours. Unable to move, unable to think straight, barely able to breathe. He can’t even cry. It’s like there’s nothing left in him.

All he knows is he can’t do this anymore. He’s so tried and exhausted and sick. He just wants to lie down and sleep forever. He’s actually pretty upset the fall didn’t kill him.

So that’s when he decides to take his life into his own hands.

He’s never really thought about killing himself before, not seriously at least, though he has wanted to die. There were times he felt his life was pointless, has always thought that he was worthless. He's cried and asked God or some unforeseeable being to just let it be done; he didn’t want to suffer anymore.

Killing himself seems like such an obvious solution and he can’t believe he hasn’t thought of acting on it before.

He thinks about his mum for a split second, but she has Gemma still, so it’s okay. And Gemma will eventually get over it, so it’s fine. Louis . . . he thinks about Louis and how he hasn’t spoken to him since Sunday. His last conversation with the lad was about how his mum was going out of town; Louis had joked that he would show up at his house and bring the booze so they could _party_. He knows, just like Gemma and his mum, though, Louis will eventually get over it; he has Liam still, and he’ll make more – _better_ – friends, more deserving of his time.  

He crawls upstairs and it takes him a good half hour to make it to his bedroom and then to his bathroom with his favorite razor blade in his hand. He leans against the bathtub and then looks up at the sink where there’s a bottle of his prescription pills he’d used Sunday night for his migraine. And he thinks, _what the hell_ and grabs it, pulling off the top with some difficulty.

He still presses the razor blade into his skin, deeper than he’s ever gone before. It doesn’t even hurt any more than usual, can barely feel it over the pounding of his head and the relief the flow of blood down his wrist is bringing him. He keeps going until he can’t even hold the blade in his shaking fingers anymore and then he dumps the bottle of pills out on the floor and starts swallowing them one by one. Everything starts getting blurry around the edges. He feels faint and cold, his fingers are covered in his own blood, but he keeps going because if he’s going to do this, he’s going to fucking do it right.

It goes dark – he slides down and his head cracks against the floor in a way that would have been painful if he was conscious – somewhere between pill number thirteen and number fifteen.

He’s not quite sure.

 

 

Sometime later he hears thumping, someone screaming, a wailing in the background. All he focuses on is the tight pressure on his chest and yelling in the background. There’s a bright light behind his eyelids and if his thoughts weren’t so disconnected he’d think about how everyone was right, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. He tries to head to it – because that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? – but it seems to be getting further and further away.

He feels like ants are running up and down his arms and pins are poking and prodding at him. It hurts; he’s uncomfortable, wants to complain that this isn’t what the afterlife is supposed to be like. Then there’s shaking and screaming and more yelling. But then he feels a snap, like a rubber band jumping back into place, and it all goes dark again.

 

 

 

His dreams are full of bright colors and poofy, cotton candy looking clouds. Sometimes he gets flashes of random memories from his life, some early into his childhood, some as recent as last week.

They’re odd memories, not even really connected. He’ll remember his mum singing him to sleep when he was little and then his tiny fingers next to her larger ones when she tried to teach him how to play piano. He remembers Gemma punching some kid on the playground for being mean to Harry, remembers her yelling _I’m the only one who gets to call him crybaby._ He remembers hiding in Gemma’s room when their mum and dad would fight or when there was a thunderstorm outside and he couldn’t sleep. He remembers arguing over whether they should watch Dumbo or The Little Mermaid and finally the day Gemma decided she was _too old for Disney movies_ and how it had scared the daylights out of him, being too old for Disney movies, and he’d run crying to his mum asking if it was true, was he going to grow too old for Disney movies, too? And she laughed and laughed and said _you’ll never be too old for Disney movies, not you._ So he made her read him Peter Pan before he went to sleep every night just to make sure.

And the image of Peter Pan transforms into Louis, Louis looking like Peter Pan and Liam in the background, arms crossed over his chest and fluttering around like Tinker Bell.

He thinks back to when he was in the bathroom at The Script concert, looking up to see Louis’ too blue eyes and the way he flicked his fringe away from his face. And then to exchanging phone numbers outside of the venue, Louis’ bright smile, the way he stuck Harry’s phone back in his pocket with no reservations, like he hadn’t a care in the world. He remembers the first time Louis kissed him – the actual first time, when they were standing on the bed – and how he just melted into it. The memory is foggy, like there’s a thick gas between him and the vision, but he can remember the feeling of Louis’ lips against his.

The memories start to flood over him after that, all the times he and Louis kissed, the crinkle next to his eye when he laughed, really laughed, the x’s he’d put after sweet texts and the winky faces he’d used when he was being flirty; the moment he came out to Louis over the phone – the first person he had ever told.

His life starts to flash before his eyes, memories he didn’t even know blinking up in front of him, but they’re all too fast for him to make sense of. He’s starting to get dizzy and he’s suddenly overly aware of a pounding in his head, a crick in his neck. He feels sore all over, stretched out and bruised. He searches frantically for those clouds he’d been laying on before, but all he finds is cold; everything is chilling cold and he starts shivering, fighting against the weight that’s holding him down.

That bright light flashes before his eyes again, then once more, it goes dark.

 

 

 

Bright lights behind his eyelids are what wake Harry up. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even open his eyes. He doesn’t want to know what’s on the other side of his lids. He thinks he’ll just lay here for a bit. He’s quite comfortable actually. If he doesn’t open his eyes, he can pretend he’s in heaven or whatever afterlife is waiting for him.

But then he hears a small intake of breath – like maybe someone saw him twitch or his eyes flicker just a little – and he opens them.

His mum is sitting next to him.

He’s in a hospital, in a hospital bed, and his mom is sitting next to him.

Her eyes fill up with tears quickly, and then she’s sobbing, but he just feels frantic, confused. He looks around quickly, taking in all of his surroundings, and he doesn’t understand. Why is his mum here? Why is he still alive? Why didn’t it work?

He doesn’t realize he’s talking, asking all these questions out loud, until his mum reaches out for him. But he flinches instinctively, trying to get away from her, from everything because this wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

He scrambles, trying to pull away from the machines, pulling the IV needle out of his arm. Nurses fill the room and press down on his shoulders, trying to get him to stay still. In the background, just barely audible over his screams and the sounds of the nurses restraining him, he can hear his mother’s choked intake of breath.

One of the nurses slides a needle into his skin and everything slowly fades into darkness again.

~*~*~*~*~

The next time he wakes up he’s feeling a lot calmer. Gemma is next to him this time and that makes everything a little better. She’s flipping through a magazine, her legs crossed. Her hair is done up, messy and falling out of its bun. There are bags under her eyes but she doesn’t cry when she sees he’s awake. She just pushes the little red button next to his head and leans back in her chair.

“I outta smack you, y’know,” she says, not looking up from her magazine. He doesn’t find it rude like maybe some people would; he can see the redness of her eyes, the struggle it’s taking her to not start crying, like maybe she thinks that would just set him off again.

Harry’s not sure he can use his voice, so he just nods. Really he wants to laugh, laugh at himself, because honestly, can he not do _anything_ right? He can’t even kill himself.

A nurse with bright ginger hair comes into the room then, smiling down at him like he’s some fragile little thing instead of a sixteen-year-old who is definitely bigger than her.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” she says.

He just turns his eyes up to the ceiling, ignoring her until she shines a light in his eyes. He blinks away, the brightness causing a sharp pain in his head. He lifts the arm she’s not using to take his blood pressure, and flings it over his eyes, moaning. There's tightness around his wrist; he's been all bandaged up. 

God, last he knew he was pretty sure he had a concussion.

Which reminds him . . .

He turns to Gemma. “How long have I been here?” he asks quietly. His voice is rough and dry, like he hasn’t spoken nor drank water in a few days.

She just stares at him for a long moment, taking in a deep breath, before turning back to her magazine.

His eyebrows furrow a bit in confusion, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything more because his mum has entered the room and she practically flings herself at him.

“Oh, Harry,” she cries, “Harry, Harry, Harry.  I was so worried. Why would you do something like that?” He doesn’t think she expects an answer because she keeps on talking. “When I found you, there was so much blood; I thought you would never wake up again. They had to restart your heart and . . .”

He freezes. “Wait. _You_ found me?” She nods. “But I thought you were at grandmas.” He was counting on Pete finding him. And Pete wouldn’t care, would only be worried that it would look like his own fault. By then he would have already been gone.

This, this isn’t right.

“I was, but then your friend Louis called me freaking out a bit and . . .”

“ _Louis called you_?” He tries to sit up but the nurse pushes him back down, shaking her head. “What? How? Why? I’m so confused.” He presses a hand to his head, the sharp pain from before coming back.

His mum smiles weakly. “Louis had my number. He called me and said he hadn’t heard from you since Sunday night. He sounded so worried I drove home as quickly as I could.” She stands up straight all of a sudden. “I better go tell him you’re awake,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, glancing at the door. 

“What do you mean? _He’s here_?”

She nods. “Yeah, he’s downstairs in the cafeteria with Pete.”

He’s downstairs with Pete. _Alone_ with Pete. Well, probably not _alone_ alone, but still. He is with Pete, and no. Just no. The thought of everything that Pete’s done to him . . . and if his step-father even thinks about touching Louis . . .

Harry tries to get up again, pushing away the nurse when she tries to restrain him. “No,” he says, “You have to – I need. . .”

“Shhh, honey,” his mum soothes. “He’ll be right up. I’ll go get him right now.”

“Hurry,” he mumbles, knowing just how pathetic he probably sounds.

"Are you in any pain?" the nurse asks. Which is kind of a stupid question;  _everything_ hurts. He nods his head and she asks, "Give me a number." 

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and says, "Eight." Whatever the nurse puts in his IV makes him tired, even more so than before, but the second he starts to relax, he hears a familiar voice.

“Is he still asleep?” Louis whispers and Harry’s eyes shoot open.

“Lou,” his voice comes out a whine and without meaning to, he’s reaching out for Louis, and then the older boy is closing the distance between them. He grasps Harry’s larger hand in his slightly smaller ones and squeezes.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” he mumbles, much like Harry’s mum had, and shakes his head. He’s wearing a beanie and his glasses and Harry thinks his eyes are a little red. “What am I going to do with you?” He reaches up to brush the hair away from Harry’s face.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head. There’s a look in Louis’ eyes though that says _it’s okay, I’m right here, you don’t have to tell me anything,_ and _I care about you, you’re important to me_ and Harry’s just instantly flooded with too much emotion and guilt and the need to tell someone, because obviously his plan didn’t work so well. He feels like it’s choking him, suffocating him with the need to let it all out, the words on the edge of his tongue. If he doesn’t let it out, he doesn’t know how much longer he can take it; he won’t make it through the night. He'll end up trying to kill himself again, jumping off the roof or out the window or something.

He looks to his mum and she must see something there because she jumps up abruptly and grabs onto Gemma’s hand as she goes.

“We’re just going to go downstairs and get some coffee, alright honey? We’ll be back in a little bit.”

Harry watches the two leave. When he turns his head back, he’s not surprised to see Louis staring at him, patient but curious. As desperate as Harry was to get them alone, now he doesn’t know what he’s even supposed to say.

“What happened?” Louis asks. His voice is quiet, on the edge of breaking. “Why did you do this to yourself? Why didn’t you call me or your mum or Gemma?”

The first thing that comes to Harry’s mind is _I didn’t think you’d care_ but then he looks up and meets Louis’ eyes and he can’t believe he ever questioned whether Louis cared about him or not.

“I just . . . I couldn’t. I wasn’t thinking,” he says. Really he was thinking _too_ much.

“Why, though? I don’t understand.” There’s a crease on Louis’ forehead and he’s frowning, looking like he’s about to cry and Harry feels like he’s about to break into a million pieces.  

“Well . . . uhm . . .” he drawls out, slow and unsure.

Louis still has his hand, and he rubs circles into the back of his palm, soothing him instantly. “Sweetheart." His voice is so quiet, Harry almost doesn't hear him. The endearment makes something squeeze inside his chest. "You can tell me anything," Louis continues. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to burst out crying. When he opens them and meets Louis’ blue eyes, he finds the story pouring out of him.


	10. The Effect He Has On Him

Once Harry starts talking, everything just pours out of him like a waterfall.

He tells Louis about the time when Pete first babysat him. He had been so excited, thought Pete was  _so_ cool. Everything went to hell in a matter of minutes. It's painful, letting it all out, telling Louis about drinking the spilled beer off the floor, seeing a side of Pete he had never seen before.

But he has to get it all out or it's going to kill him, like some kind of poison.

He goes on to tell Louis about the first time Pete came into his room and raped him. He's never used or even let himself _think_ the R word before, and talking about it out loud now causes his voice to break, but Louis just squeezes his hand tighter, anchoring him to the here and now.

When he gets to the part about cutting himself he can’t meet Louis’ eyes, afraid of what he will see there. Judgment, anger, disgust, he isn’t sure. Louis doesn't let his surprise show, though. The bandages wrapped around his wrist are in plain view anyway, so Louis had probably already connected the dots.

He finally breaks down and starts tearing up when he gets to the part about Pete sneaking into his bedroom in the middle of the night, whether his mum and Gemma were home or not. He would just order Harry to turn over and then have his way with him, squeezing the back of Harry's neck so he couldn't make a sound.

"If they weren't home," Harry says, "sometimes he would . . . he would grab the back of my hair, pull on it until I cried." He struggles to take a deep breath. "It was like . . . like he wanted to know he was hurting me. Whenever I stayed quiet he'd keep pushing or pulling until I'd snap and it was like that's what he'd been waiting for."

For the most part Louis stays quiet. Every once in a while when Harry’s story gets particularly bad he curses under his breath. He almost gets up at one point in the story too, though to do what, Harry isn’t sure. He pulls on his hand, though, keeping Louis from going anywhere. There are a couple of times Louis’ eyes roam over Harry's exposed arms. He’s in a hospital gown, no longer covered up in jumpers or layers like he has been for so long. He knows Louis can see the cuts and scars, some more recent fading bruises. A nurse comes in halfway through his story to take his vitals and change out his bandages. The cuts on his wrist really were deep, so deep he had to get stitches. Louis steps back to let her do what she needs to get done, but Harry knows he can see the cuts, the ugly marks stitching him back together, and he kind of just wants to curl in on himself and hide.

By the time Harry is finished with the story, Louis has his free hand covering his eyes and he's shaking his head slowly, almost like he can’t believe what Harry has told him. It’s quiet between them for at least five minutes, neither of them moving or saying much of anything.

“I feel so stupid,” Louis finally says, dropping his hand from his face but still not meeting Harry’s eyes.

His pulse quickens, just the tiniest bit, but he can see it on his heart monitor as he sits up. “What? Why?”

Turning to look at him, Louis lets out a frustrated kind of noise. “Because I knew something was going on! I mean, I _suspected_ there was something you weren’t telling me. I just figured, eventually you would open up.” He trails a finger up and down Harry’s thin arm, drawing invisible patterns. “If I had known . . .” He keeps his eyes locked on his finger, not looking up at Harry. “Anyway, that’s why I took your mum’s phone number.” He bites his lip and looks up at Harry from underneath his eyelashes, looking like he thinks Harry will be upset.

“I guess I’m not so good at keeping things hidden.”

Louis’ eyes widen and he almost looks like he’s going to smile. Instead he frowns. “On the contrary, you’ve kept this hidden for, what, eight, nine years? And no one else knows.” His frown deepens. “I just . . . I just wish I had known sooner."

Harry doesn’t say anything. He leans back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling, focusing on counting tiles to keep from thinking too much.

A sudden sigh has Harry glancing back at Louis, who is looking extremely contemplative. “I really don’t know what to say, Harry,” the boy continues, not looking at him. He has his eyes on their interlaced hands. “I mean, I’m so sorry for everything you’ve had to go through. It breaks my heart. It’s just . . . I’m so . . .” His hand tightens around Harry’s quickly. “I’m so _. . ._ " He groans a little. "I mean, the thought of anyone hurting you - It makes me want to . . . It's not . . .” His head drops down to where their interlaced hands are and Harry’s stomach tightens when he realizes Louis is crying, actually _crying._

He wants to ask why, why would Louis cry for him? There’s no need to cry. It’s fine. He deserved the abuse, he wants to tell him, he wasn’t a good kid; he broke things and didn’t always do well enough in school. He wasn’t skinny enough or athletic enough. He was always tripping over things and speaking without permission. Pete wanted a tough kid as a step-son and instead he got stuck with Harry.

Harry doesn’t say any of this, though, just squeezes his hand and Louis finally looks up. “Don’t cry, Lou. I really don’t want you crying because of me. It’s fine.”  

The other boy shakes his head. “It’s _not_ fine. He deserves to rot in hell for the things he did to you.” His eyes are red rimmed, filled with unshed tears. They grow dark and cold, angry. The sight makes Harry uncomfortable. He's never seen Louis like this.

He doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t know if he can find it in himself to agree with Louis, so again they lapse into silence for a few minutes. This time they just kind of share a long look, communicating without actually speaking. It’s like Harry can feel everything the other boy is feeling, how concerned he was about Harry and how glad he’s here now, okay, out of harm’s way.  

Louis takes in a deep breath and looks Harry straight in the eye, his expression turned serious. “You have to tell someone,” he says, and then, “Someone other than me. Your mum, the police . . . They were here already, y'know,” he adds offhandedly. "I guess the doctor called them when they got a good look at you."

Almost immediately, Harry’s pulse spikes and he sits up, shaking his head and pulling his hand free from Louis’ grasp. The thought of telling his mum, of dealing with Pete and the police has his chest aching. His breath comes out too quickly and his heart monitor starts beeping in response to the pounding of his heart. He knows any minute the nurse will be barging in, wondering what the hell is going on. He can only imagine her getting suspicious and maybe kicking Louis out and Harry doesn’t want that. The thought just makes his panic attack worse and he clutches at the sheets beside him, still shaking his head, his curly hair falling in front of his face.

"I can't," he tries to say, gasping for breath. "You don't understand. He's dangerous. You don't know what he'll -"

But then Louis is leaning over him, rubbing circles into his back and whispering soothing words into his ear. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly his heart rate returns to normal just because of Louis and the calming effect he has on him. Harry leans back in the bed, still breathing a little heavy. Louis sits down, squeezing his hand again.

The ginger-haired nurse comes in then, looking between the two and narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Harry tightens his hold on Louis automatically.

“What’s going on here?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

Harry nods slowly. “Yeah, sorry, just . . .”

“He thought he missed the new Doctor Who episode but I TiVo’ed it, so it’s all good,” Louis finishes quickly, lying flawlessly. Harry stares at him, a little incredulously, and has to press his lips together because he almost thinks he’s going to smile.

The nurse doesn’t really look like she believes him, but she nods her head and turns her attention solely on Harry. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, sweetie.” She leaves with a smile.

“Oooh, _sweetie_. I think she fancies you.”

Harry just rolls his eyes. He closes them shortly later and focuses on his breathing. He's had enough panic attacks in his sixteen years to be pretty well versed on how to keep himself calmed down; he just always has trouble remembering the tips when he actually needs them.

After another couple minutes of silence - the only sound is of Harry's deep breaths - Louis squeezes his hand. Harry opens his eyes and turns to look at the boy. There’s a look of regret on his face and Harry frowns, knows what’s coming.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but you're going to have to talk to someone about this whether you want to or not.”

Harry nods his head slowly, knowing Louis is right. “You’ll stay with me, right?”

Louis squeezes his hand and nods back. “Of course I will.” He leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s forehead for a moment. When he leans back, he smiles briefly. “Do you want me to go get your mum?”

Harry really doesn’t want him to leave, doesn’t want to be alone, but he nods his head and figures he might as well get it done and over with. Plus he might be able to get some shut eye while Louis is gone. He’s so exhausted; his head feels like he hit it against a brick wall _over and over again_ and his muscles feel like he just ran a marathon.

He watches Louis walk to the door, asks him quietly if he can turn off the light when he goes, and then the room is flooded with darkness minus the little bit of sunshine coming in through the blinds, and he’s alone.

Apparently, though, the universe is against him getting any shut eye whatsoever. Just as he starts drifting off to sleep, finally comfortable and managing to clear his head, the door opens and then closes. He snaps his eyes open quickly, thinking Louis has returned for something or maybe ran into his mum in the hallway and didn’t have to go too far.

Neither end up being true.

Pete is standing at the foot of his bed, only just barely visible in the dark. Harry feels like everything inside of him freezes: his heart, his lungs, his stomach churns uncomfortably. They both manage to ignore the audible quickened beeping of his heart rate though Harry thinks there’s some kind of smugness in Pete’s eyes.

“That boy you were just talking to . . .” Harry’s hands clench into the sheets beside him. “That the one you’ve been spending all that time with?”

He nods slowly, wondering where this is going.

“What were you guys talking about?” Harry shrugs. “What did you tell him?” Pete presses.

And this is it, Harry thinks, he knows he told, he’ll be able to read it in his eyes or something. He doesn’t have to worry about killing himself anymore; Pete’s going to take care of it for him.

Pete starts walking around the bed, hand landing on top of the blankets covering Harry’s ankle. The older man squeezes just a little. He opens his mouth, but the door swings open and Louis is standing at the threshold. He kind of looks like he's some sort of guardian angel, or like he just stepped out of a movie, with the way the light is streaming in behind him from the hallway. He glances between Harry and Pete suspiciously. Pete closes his mouth and pats Harry’s leg awkwardly, like that’s what he had been meaning to do all along.

“What’s going on?” Louis asks, closing the distance between them and walking over so he can stand next to Harry’s bed.

Pete smiles lazily. It’s almost too easy to buy, Harry thinks. The man is way too good at what he does. No wonder nobody ever suspected him.

“I was just seeing if Harry here was feeling better.”

Louis doesn't miss a beat. “Bullshit.”

Pete looks taken aback, staring between Louis and Harry. His features turn confused but it doesn't take long for it to click. He takes a step forward.

“You  _did_ tell him. I told you to never say a word and you squealed, you little ---” He raises his arm like he's going to grab at Harry, but Louis takes a step forward, putting himself between the two of them. Pete’s eyes turn to Louis, darkening. Harry doesn't even think, just sits up quickly, pulling Louis back and reaching out a hand to stop Pete.

“I swear to God, if you lay one finger on him, I will scream so loud every security guard in this hospital will be in this room before you can even contemplate heading for the door,” he warns.

He’s never talked back to Pete, never said a word against him or threatened him in any way. He’s always gone along with whatever his step-father said or wanted. Sometimes he cried, sure, and sometimes he yelled or pleaded for him to stop, but not like this, never like this. And Pete looks shocked almost. Harry feels pretty shocked himself.

Pete takes a step back though, shaking his head and dropping his hand. After a moment, he turns and walks to the door. When he reaches it, he glances back at Harry and says, “You’re going to regret this,” before walking out.

Neither of them says anything for a long while, just continue staring at the door Pete had disappeared through.

“Well, that was . . .” Louis’ voice trails off, but Harry nods, understanding what he means. The fight goes out of him and he slumps against the bed. Louis' hands, previously in fists at his side, relax. He looks like he wants to chase after Pete, but Harry takes his hand and squeezes.  “Are you okay?” Louis finishes.  

His face scrunches up in response. He shrugs but doesn’t say anything. He did what he had to do, that’s all there is to it. And if he never sees Pete again, he won’t mind.

“Your mum’s going to be up here in a few minutes. She and Gemma grabbed some lunch. Are you hungry?”

Harry shakes his head no and reaches for Louis. He must understand what Harry wants because he drops down onto the bed beside him and curls an arm around his waist. “So proud of you,” he whispers into the juncture between Harry’s neck and shoulder. “You’re so brave.” He keeps repeating the words over and over till Harry feels like they’re etched into his skin and he eventually drifts off to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

Cool fingers brushing his hair back are what wake Harry up some time later. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but there’s not as much light coming in through the window so it must be late afternoon, early evening.

Harry looks up to see his mother standing beside his bed, her hands now at her side, and a somewhat sad smile on her face. 

“He’s important to you, yeah?” she asks. He follows her line of vision to see Louis is still cuddled in next to him, dead to the world. His tan arm is wrapped tightly around Harry’s waist.

Harry nods, tightening his hold on the older boy.

“That’s good, I mean . . . I think he’s good for you, yeah? Do you . . . I mean, are you two . . .” her voice trails off, but he knows what she’s asking and shakes his head. “Oh, well I just thought. You know, I’d be okay . . . if you were. I just want you to be happy.”

He manages to smile and reaches out. Her hand finds his and he squeezes gently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, mum.” Her eyes fill up with tears but she shakes her head, telling him he has nothing to apologize for. “I have to . . .” He closes his eyes and take a deep breath before continuing. “I have to tell you . . .”

Psychic or something, Harry’s not sure, but that’s when Louis lets out a yawn and blinks open his eyes tiredly. He looks a little sheepish at having woken up next to Harry – especially with Anne _right there_ – and starts to get off the bed. Harry grabs his hand, though, stopping him.

He turns back to his mum, takes a deep breath, and slowly repeats the story he told Louis. He leaves some things out, keeps to the bare minimum, and doesn’t include the gory details. With a little prodding from Louis, he also tells her about his cutting.

Louis sits next to him the entire time, legs curled up underneath him and Harry’s free hand in his lap, drawing invisible patterns on his skin. It feels nice, distracts him slightly from the intensity of the words coming out of his mouth.

His mum waits until the very end to start crying, sinking down into the chair next to Harry’s bed and burying her face in her free hand. He squeezes the hand he still holds and she starts sobbing, saying things like ‘how did I not know?’ and ‘I should’ve been able to tell’ and ‘I’m so sorry.’ Harry just tries to sooth her, telling her it’s alright, things will be better now.

Everything’s going to be much better now.

He knows it’s not the truth, though, knows even though Pete’s left and his mum knows the story, nothing really changes. Pete's going to be back eventually. Harry's still been an awful son, still deserves to be punished. He thinks his mum should kick him out of the house or at least yell at him a little bit, because why would Pete have acted that way if Harry didn’t deserve it?

He wouldn’t have, that’s all there is to it.

The story finally gets around to Gemma and she holds him and cries, says she should have noticed the signs. “I’ve had friends who've, you know, self-harmed,” she says, “I’ve had _friends_. I should have seen what was going on.” But Harry just shakes his head and tries to convince her there was nothing she could have done.

Things might be better right now, he knows, but it’s not going to last that way. Still, he tries to hold onto what little hope he has every time he meets his mum’s eyes or Gemma brushes his hair away from his forehead or Louis squeezes his hand.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry fingers the material of the hospital gown. He’s still not used to his arms – pale from rarely seeing the light of day – being so on display for everyone to see. Most of his cuts and bruises have healed in the time he’s been at the hospital (a week and a half he was finally told) and only the more serious injuries are visible. Besides his wrist, there’s also a cut above his eyebrow that will leave a scar he’ll always have, a couple of his ribs are cracked and wrapped, a bruise spans most of his chest, and he even broke a finger when Pete had shoved him into the sink while he’d been attempting to do the dishes. A broken finger is the least of his worries though, and he barely feels the dull throb of pain at the end of his left hand where it’s wrapped in a brace. He had a few fractures from years ago that had never healed right, and have now been set and wrapped.

There are other marks, of course, more serious cuts from when he sunk a razor or knife into his skin or from Pete’s drunken rampages, that will never fade, but he’s always known that and he’s always tried to hide them.

Now though, they stand out, like bright lights in the middle of a dark road. He knows, really _knows_ , that no one is staring at him or judging him or looking at him with their jaw hanging open, but he can’t stop the feeling that he’s on display. He has to keep fighting the urge to wrap himself up in blankets or ask his mum for a jumper. (He’d tried that already and when he had used the excuse that he was cold – he actually was, so it hadn’t been a lie – she had just turned up the heat in the room.)

Louis still sits at his side. He hasn’t left the room once except to go to the bathroom and he refuses to use the guest bathroom down the hallway like he’s supposed to, instead using Harry’s own personal hospital room bathroom. He doesn’t say anything, but Harry gets the feeling Louis doesn’t want to leave him alone after what happened with Pete. There’s been a security guard stationed in front of Harry’s door to monitor who comes and goes, just in case Pete decides to pay another visit.

Harry refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, keeping his own green ones on the blue material in his hands. It’s fraying a bit, worn at the edges because he’s been pulling and messing with his gown so much: a nervous habit he’s developed. He’s always pulled at his jumper sleeves to cover his wrists and now he can’t.

He knows everyone in the room is talking about him, waiting for him to react or say something. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be acting though, nobody told him ‘you should be freaking out’ or ‘you should be worried.’ He’s sure he’s _supposed_ to be freaking out, but he’s not. He couldn’t even find it in him to be the least bit surprised when they’d been informed that Pete had vacated the premises and the police were on the lookout for him. (He'd spent what felt like _hours_ talking to them.) Like Pete was actually going to stick around after having found out Harry had told Louis; he wasn’t stupid. He’d kept the abuse hidden long enough that should have been obvious.

They’re not talking about Pete anymore though and he doesn’t know if he prefers the new topic or not. It makes his skin crawl and he itches at it a little before he goes back to fumbling with the gown, rolling up the sleeve then unrolling it.

“Harry,” the doctor says. Harry _hmm_ ’s a little in acknowledgment. “We need to know if you think you might have an eating disorder.”

He freezes. Every single bone in his body goes icy cold. His stomach churns and his heart rate slows down for once instead of speeding up.

He hadn’t mentioned the not eating thing to anyone because he'd decided it wasn’t a big deal. He does eat, so it’s fine; he was just eating less, trying to lose weight. People went on diets all the time, so what was the big deal if sometimes he didn't eat that much?

“He’s always been skinny,” his mum tries to reason, but even she looks doubtful and worried as she scans over his body, his thin arms on display. This time he does curl in on himself, hiding his arms under the covers of his bed and trying to scoot down as much as possible. He can feel Louis’ eyes on him, but he keeps his own down, looking at the bed.

“His weight is worringly low and he was extremely dehydrated when he was brought in.”

Harry wants to scoff – they did weigh him and he’d gained weight since being admitted to the hospital. The number wasn’t low, not for him, maybe for everyone else, but for him that was just fat.

He wraps his arms tightly around his stomach.

“Well, maybe he’s just been stressed,” his mum goes on. Harry wants her to shut up. “We’ve been going through a lot the past couple of weeks, living off of fast food.”

The doctor sighs. He sounds patient when he speaks, though. “This isn’t the result of a few weeks of dieting; this is something that has to of been going on for a while. Years even.”

They all turn to Harry, waiting for an explanation, an explanation he doesn’t have.

He looks up and shrugs. “I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“Have you been dieting?” the doctor asks. His voice is calm, nearly soothing, but it doesn't make Harry feel better.

He doesn’t think dieting is a good word for what he’s doing, because diets are usually short term, are they not, and his has been going on for probably half his life now. He shrugs again.

“How much do you eat in a day?” he presses.

Frowning, Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I eat breakfast usually and dinner.”

“No lunch?”

Shaking his head, Harry says, “No. I usually study in the library during lunch. I’m trying to graduate school early.” Looks like that ideas out the window.

“Do you ever make yourself throw up after eating?”

Harry freezes, opens his mouth to say no, but then he looks up and he knows the answer is written clear as day on his face. His mum takes a quick intake of air and his sister buries her face in her hands.

“I don’t have an eating disorder, though,” he tries to explain. “Sometimes I just eat too much and my stomach starts hurting, so . . .” his voice trails off.

Through the entire conversation, Louis has been silent and Harry turns to look at him now. The older boy looks teary-eyed but he smiles and squeezes Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t understand what he’s getting so upset about. It’s not a big deal.

The doctor nods, says, “We’ll get a psychiatrist in here to talk to you, then go from there, okay?” and then looks down at Harry like he’s a fragile little flower instead of a teenager half a foot taller than him, much like the ginger haired nurse had.

Harry wants to argue because he doesn’t need to see a fucking therapist, but Louis just squeezes his hand, pulls him out of his thoughts and he blocks out the noise of the doctor and his mum exchanging hushed words.

“I kind of suspected, y’know,” Louis says quietly. Harry raises a brow in confusion. “About your eating,” he clarifies. “I was going to ask you about it, but I didn’t want you getting mad at me. You’d eat in front of me so I just tried to convince myself I was wrong, but . . .” He frowns. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve said something.”

Harry’s free hand tightens. “It’s not a big deal. I’m fine,” he tells him through clenched teeth. He tries to pull his hand away from Louis’ grasp but the older boy just holds it tighter and shakes his head.

“It’s not alright, Hazza. None of this is. Look at yourself.”

That’s the last thing Harry should be doing; when he looks at any part of his body he just ends up hating himself even more. He turns away from Louis with a curt shake of his head.

“I think it’s a good idea,” his mum is saying when Harry tunes back in to the chatter. _What’s a good idea?_

“It’s a great program,” the doctor says. “They’ve got art therapy, group therapy, music therapy . . .”

“Music therapy,” Anne exclaims. “Harry loves music.”

He looks up finally, his confusion becoming too much. He meets her eyes, but she just smiles. Her eyes are red and watery. Gemma squeezes her hand and nods in agreement.

Then his brain catches up to what they’re saying.

“Therapy? What’re you talking about?”

For about the millionth time since he’s woken up, Harry questions if Louis’ psychic. He must somehow sense the panic attack on the edge of Harry’s thoughts, because he rubs the back of his hand with his thumb. Harry looks from him, to his mom and Gemma, to the doctor, and back again. Over and over again, waiting for someone to say something. They all look uncomfortable. Finally the doctor cracks.

“There’s a residential inpatient program we think will benefit you.”

“What’s that?” he asks, his voice slow with drowsiness.

“Basically you’ll stay there for a little while ---” He doesn’t get a chance to finish.

“ _Stay_ there? Stay where? How long? Why?”

The doctor looks uncomfortable, resituating himself on the long couch and finally giving up and standing up, walking towards the end of Harry’s bed.

“It depends. Some patients stay for a couple months, some longer.”

Harry shakes his head. “No way. I’m not leaving my mum alone and moving in to a hospital.”

“Harry.” When he meets his mum’s eyes, she’s pressing her lips together, trying to hold back tears. “I’m going to be saying with grandma for a while. She needs me and I . . . I need to not be in Holmes Chapel. This way I’ll be closer to you and Gemma.”

He shakes his head harder, trying to get his point across. “No, I don’t need this.”

Everyone in the room obviously disagrees with him. Gemma’s the one who speaks though. “Harry, please. You tried to _kill_ yourself.” His mum flinches; it’s the first time _it_ has been spoken out loud. He’s glad she’s not beating around the bush though. “You’ve been cutting and starving and throwing up your food for God knows how long . . .” Her voice trails off and she gives him a stern look, similar to the one she gave him when he suggested staying home with her from The Script concert so many months ago.

He shrugs. “Well I’ll stop then.”

“It’s not that simple,” the doctor argues.

“And what if I say no?”

The doctor frowns. “Well, you’re underage, so your mother has the ability to sign you in, and you wouldn’t be allowed to leave until she signed you out.”

So basically he has no choice, no say in the matter whatsoever.

“Harry.” Louis squeezes his hand.

“What?” he asks, his tone short, and turns to look at the older boy.

Louis doesn’t say anything for a minute, just gives him a long look. His eyes aren’t as shiny behind his glasses today, Harry notices, and the hair that’s visible from under his beanie looks flat and dull, like he hasn’t washed it in a few days. It dawns on Harry then that he doesn’t know how long Louis’ been here, at the hospital. Did he come as soon as Harry got admitted? When did his mum even tell him?

“I think it would be good for you,” he finally says.

“But I don’t –” he tries to argue.

“ _Harry_.” His tone is finalizing, leaving no room for argument.

Harry sighs, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. “Fine.”

His mum sighs with relief and the doctor smiles widely. “Great, great,” he says. “I’ll just get all the papers sorted and as soon as you’re all healed up, we’ll get you settled in across the street.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, avoids everyone’s pleased looks, and mentally curses Louis and the effect he has on him.


	11. Doomed to End Up This Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics belong to papa roach - carry me

# Part Two

* * *

_It takes horns to hold up my halo_  
 _and strength to get through the fight_  
 _Now I'm laying my cards on the table_  
 _praying everything will be alright_  
 _I question my own existence_  
 _question the meaning of life._  
 _Why don't you carry me?_

* * *

 

Harry stays in the hospital another week before being transferred across the street. The doctor keeps referring to it as their ‘residential inpatient building’ but Harry can only think of it as a psych ward, nothing more.

Upon hearing about the program (the psychologist sits him down on his last day in the hospital and explains it all to him) Harry’s first thought is that it’ll be filled with wackos and people with _serious_ psychological problems. Nothing like himself.

(He’s still trying to convince everyone that there’s nothing wrong with him and he can stop cutting and purging anytime he wants, but they don’t listen.)

He’s wrong about the patients, though.

Not only is the ward full of teens _only_ , there are people he wouldn’t have thought twice about if he had ran into them on the street. Some of the patients have long lasting issues, sure, but most are only there for a brief stint just like him.

Within a week he learns most everybody’s name and what he can generally expect from being around or talking to them. On his very first day there (a Friday), a girl sits down next to him at breakfast and tells him he needs Jesus. Another girl goes around cleaning all the tables, organizing all the bookshelves, and apologizing to everyone profusely about ‘the mess.’ There’s a boy who talks so fast that Harry gives up half-way through the conversation on ever finding out what he’s going on about and the youngest girl there is so small and fragile looking Harry feels sorry for her.

(That is, of course, until she cusses out the nurse in his first ever group therapy session and he realizes she can definitely hold her own.)

There are girls who are so thin they look like they’re going to break in half and some patients who eat twice as much as anyone else there. There are boys who flirt with anyone who gets near them and some who like to light things on fire. There are patients with cuts across their wrist just like him; some of them try to hide their scars, some show them off for the world to see.

There are also teenagers who stare off into space and get glossy-eyed and day-dreamy in the middle of a conversation. There’s a girl who, Harry gets warned about within two minutes, bites people who get too close to her. There’s a younger boy who picks someone at random to follow around all day, standing right up in their personal space and sometimes even following them into the bathroom.

It takes a lot of getting used to. For the first few days Harry feels completely overwhelmed. There are psychiatrists to be evaluated by and social workers to talk to, nurses who continually check up on him and a roommate who snores too loudly.

He quickly learns that not everyone is in the ward because they’re on suicide watch – like he is his first few weeks there. Some are just going through a rough patch or need twenty-four hour care. They’ve been through trauma or are indirectly suicidal. One girl is dependent on drugs and has been in three different rehab facilities, none of which helped. A couple girls have even been raped.

A lot of the patients who have been there a while are very open about everything that’s happened to them, whatever caused them to come to the facility. Harry thinks he fits in quite nicely with the eating disorder kids, though – he hates the term _disorder_ , still thinks, _claims_ , there’s nothing wrong with him and his eating habits. Most of the kids with eating disorders stick together, griping about the food and glaring when they get asked to share. Some of them actually fight against being forced to eat; some cry and some scream; some confess in group that they’re still purging – because the hospital can’t exactly _stop_ them from doing it, so why not?

(Harry later learns that they have a ‘secret weapon’ when it comes to the ones who refuse to eat and it actually scares him into forcing food down his throat for a couple days.)

Mostly Harry just sits there, picking at his food and staying quiet for the first couple of weeks. They pass by in a blur and he barely says two words. He thinks the better he behaves the sooner he’ll get out. He just has to pretend that he’s going along with what his psychiatrist and social worker are saying, take his medicine like a good little boy, and soon enough they’ll release him.

 

It’s his third week there when things really start changing.

A new girl comes in during group therapy. It’s not unusual; they get new patients every few days and someone’s always ‘graduating.’

There’s nothing immediately different about this girl at first glance. She has light blonde hair tied up in a loose bun, big eyes, and wears leather jackets, soft looking cardigans, and jumpers that seem like they could swallow her up. She rolls back her sleeves one day – it’s burning hot in the drama room – and Harry sees her wrists are lined with faint white scars like his. Almost automatically she looks around and shoves her sleeves back down.

(It’s the first – and one of the few – hints Harry gets that she’s not as tough as she makes herself out to be.)

The moment he decides he wants to talk to her (if he’s being honest, he’s wanted to talk to her since she walked in group) is when one of the younger boys who is always hitting on him, walks up to her during art therapy and asks what the kanji tattoo on the back of her neck means.

Harry knows it means ‘strength’ because of all the time he spent studying kanji when he wanted to get his own tattoo, but he watches, curious for some reason to hear her answer.

She looks up from where she’s painting at her easel and without missing a beat says, “Cock sucker,” and looks back down. She’s got purple paint on her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

The boy blinks at her a couple times and walks away. If Harry hadn’t been watching so intently he wouldn’t have seen the small smile she quirks.

He tries to remember her name and curses himself for not paying more attention in group therapy. It’s really dull though, so he honestly can’t be blamed.

He sets down his own paintbrush (he had been trying to do a self-portrait like all the ED kids were supposed to but it mostly just looks like a fattened up stick figure) and walks over to where the blonde is standing. Her own painting is a fairly accurate one of herself, so he figures she must be one of the ED kids, too.

“Why’d you lie?” he asks. His voice is quiet and strained; he hasn’t spoken out loud in a week or two.

She doesn’t answer at first, nor does she look up from her painting. Instead she keeps adding hair onto the doodle of herself, piling it on top of her circle of a head. It’s more yellow than blonde, though, and she’s added a red bandana that she later tells him she tried to strangle herself with.

Finally she says, “The doc told me I was too brutally honest with people, so I’ve decided to take a different approach.”

He raises an eyebrow in interest. “And different approach means lying to people?”

She looks up at him then, her eyes sparkling so much and looking so innocent Harry almost has to take a step back from the intensity of it all.

“No,” she says. “Not all the time. Just when people are being assholes.” She smiles like it’s all a big joke to her. “Which, granted, was my excuse when I was being brutally honest, but . . .” her voice trails off and she shrugs, going back to her painting. “So what brings you to Area 51?”

“Area 51?”

“Yeah, y’know, it’s where they keep all the aliens.” She wiggles her fingers at him in a silly gesture and then goes back to her painting.

“You’re comparing us to aliens?” He can’t keep the amusement out of his tone.

She shrugs. “Not much difference, is there?”

He laughs.

It’s the first time he’s laughed since being admitted to the hospital, the first time anyone besides Louis or his family has ever made him laugh and it takes him by surprise, just like the first time. He’s so caught up in the feeling he almost doesn’t realize she’s speaking again.

“Sorry, what?”

She chuckles. “Never mind, I think I answered my own question.” She winks at him then, like they’re in some cheesy teenage rom-com instead of a teenage unit psych ward of a hospital, and smiles to herself like she’s got her own secret joke she’s not letting him in on.

“What are you in for?” he asks, very aware that he sounds like they’re in jail, prison mates or something.

She goes about making her eyes blue in the painting – even though in real life they’re more greenish brown. “I like smoking cigarettes instead of eating.” There’s a three second pause. “What about you?”

“My step-father liked to use me as a punching bag,” he answers without thinking and then presses his lips together, quickly looking around, like maybe Pete is standing right behind him. He wants to take the words back, tell her what he’s really thinking; he doesn’t know _why_ he’s here, really.

Also he doesn’t want people overhearing him.

The student nurse is kind of glaring at him because he’s not at his own easel painting, but other than that everyone’s too engrossed in their own work – except for one girl, who’s dancing along to the classical music playing in the background and flinging paint on herself and everyone within a foot distance.

His psychiatrist and social worker all know what’s ‘wrong’ with him – they try to get him to talk about it without much luck – because it’s written in his folder, but the doctors and nurses are mostly oblivious along with the rest of the patients; he’d like to keep it that way.

He looks back down at the blonde he still doesn’t remember the name of. She’s not giving him any sad or ‘I feel so sorry for you’ looks. She’s not even looking at him. She just nods her head a bit and mumbles something that sounds like “That’s gotta be tough.”

So he takes a chance. “I . . . don’t like eating that much either,” he admits.

She smiles when she looks up at him and says, “Think you and I are gonna get along just fine.”

~*~*~*~*~

(When Harry asks her what her name is, she says, “Pixie” without any hesitance, but he doesn’t actually believe her. He keeps asking her if that’s really her name and eventually she says, “No, but why should I tell you? Weren’t you paying attention in group?” And no, of course he wasn’t.

Eventually she tells him it’s Victoria, but he keeps calling her Pixie anyway.)

~*~*~*~*~

The first time Pixie kisses him isn’t on accident or anything, but he doesn’t think it really counts as anything other than a friendly peck.

(He can’t help but wonder if all of his friendships are doomed to end up this way.)

They’re joking about something – he doesn’t know what, just knows that he’s laughing so hard his side is cramping – and she suddenly gets up. His eyes fly between her and the movie they had put on, but aren’t exactly watching. It’s nearly ten, which is when the nurses go around and shoo everyone off to bed, but they still have a few minutes left and the two of them usually push the bedtime curfew as far as they can, sometimes Pixie even complains that she can’t sleep and gets sleeping pills out of the deal.

She’s in her night wear: a long sleeve shirt she says is her ex-girlfriend’s and plaid printed pajama bottoms that she says are her ex-boyfriend’s. She has no qualms about wearing their clothes apparently. Harry’s wearing his sleep clothes, too: jogging bottoms that are ripped at the bottom and drag along the floor behind him wherever he goes and one of Louis’ jumpers Harry stole from him the week before when he came to visit. The jumper’s just a little too small for him, not enough to be real noticeable. The sleeves just barely reach his wrist and he’s a little constricted in the shoulders, but it’s more comfortable than any of his own jumpers.

(It also smells like Louis, but Harry pretends he doesn't notice.)

Pixie pulls down her shirt where it’s ridden up, covering her stomach, and laughs again.

Her laughs are addictive, almost reminding him of Louis’, but not quite. They’re pleasant enough, though; he almost always has to laugh along.

She tucks a strand of her hair that’s fallen out of its usual pony-tail behind her ear and bends down to press a kiss to the side of his mouth.

He freezes a little, but before he knows it, she’s pulled back. “I’m going to bed,” she says, and then she’s gone.

 

The second time is just as innocent, though more fully a kiss. He’s not sure how on-purpose it is either.

They’re on the back porch smoking. Well, she’s smoking; he’s sitting on the table watching the sun rise. She had offered him a cigarette, but he turned it down. The deep circles covering various spots of his body are enough of a reminder, thank you very much.

He wonders idly if what she’s smoking is actually a cigarette because she keeps giggling, shaking her head and tossing back her blonde hair that’s finally no longer in a bun or a pony-tail. It hangs to nearly her waist and he wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.

“I just don’t wanna eat, y’know, and I’m pretty sure the meds are making me fatter.” She grabs her stomach in a jokingly manner and laughs again.

He joins in with her laughter. “I think it’s the food that’s making us fatter.” He can’t help but look her over, eying her up and down discreetly; she gets on to him if she catches him looking. She’s not fat, not even close. She's kind of tall, but not too tall. He doesn’t really like it when people come up and say ‘you’re too skinny’ or ‘you need to gain weight’ to him, though, so he figures she wouldn’t either. 

Her laugh echoes around the mini-courtyard. “God, let’s just stop eating, okay? They can’t really make us eat, can they?”

Harry shrugs. “Not sure, actually. They can’t stop you from purging.” He’s only done it three or four times in the time he’s been there.

Pixie sticks out her tongue. “Don’t know how you do that. I tried once; it didn’t work. Plus I read this book where this girl threw up too much and her esophagus like . . . exploded or something.”

He shudders. “Thanks for telling me that.” He’s not really worried; he figures if his throat was going to combust, it would have done so by now.

She smiles. “Aw, I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” And then she’s leaning forward and pressing their lips together. It barely lasts a second, but he can taste the smoke on her breath. Besides the fact that she kind of smells like an ashtray, it’s a pretty decent kiss, and he smiles when she pulls back.

~*~*~*~*~

It becomes a thing then, them just kind of kissing a little bit here and there, and it makes them both feel better. Well, it makes _him_ feel better. He isn’t sure about Pixie because she isn’t one to _talk_ about things like that but granted, neither is he. She’s always the one to initiate the kisses though, so he’s pretty sure she likes it; she wouldn’t be kissing him otherwise if she didn’t, right?

They never really get caught, though Harry is always on high alert, millions of ideas about what’ll happen to them if they do run through his mind. How much trouble could they _really_ get into though? Kicking them out isn’t exactly punishment.

When Louis visits – like he does every single weekend without fail – with Harry’s mum and (occasionally) Gemma, Harry half-expects the ping in his chest to be gone, the tightening of his stomach to have disappeared, like _hey I found someone else to kiss, it doesn’t have to be like that anymore_. But it doesn’t and he’s not sure if he’s really all that surprised. He gives Louis a long hug and the older boy ruffles his hair (muttering “don’t you ever fix your fringe?” with an eye roll) and out of the corner of Harry’s eye Pixie gives him a knowing look and then his stomach really does tighten.

He thinks he’s getting better, and he tells Louis such. He still doesn’t believe he has an eating disorder, but he’s been taking his medicine and he’s eating two meals a day – which is progress at least, even if he has to drink those god-awful weight gaining shakes at the end of the night when he eats less than he’s supposed to.

Harry knows he’s gaining weight too because his clothes start fitting better (and the clothes he stole from Louis start fitting less). He tries to tell himself it’s a good thing, that now he’ll be healthy enough to leave, but his fingers randomly start tingling and his hands start shaking and it takes everything inside of him not to thrust his hand down his throat and throw up everything inside of him and just face the fact that he doesn’t know if he wants to be anyone else’s idea of healthy.

He pushes all of his feelings down, down to the pit of his stomach, and pretends like he’s fine. He’ll vent to Pixie and that’s it. They both grunt and complain about group therapy and physical therapy – sometimes even going as far as to skip one or the other, sometimes both when they can get away with it. The only time he likes group is when they have writing exercises and then he ends up covering two or three pages in _feelings_ even though they’re supposed to be writing a fiction story based off of a picture the doctor hands out; he’s sure getting them to pour everything out is the point anyways.

Pixie looks at his papers – doesn’t read them, just looks – and rolls her eyes, and later they talk about what they want to do with their lives and it’s the first time Harry’s acknowledged the fact that he doesn’t actually want to die anymore.

 

One evening he and Pixie are down the shortest hallway, hidden in the stairwell. They’re not supposed to be there, but they’ve gotten away with sneaking over there for a couple hours at a time in the past.

They’re leaning against the wall, shoulder to shoulder, touching all the way down to their feet. Pixie’s wearing her Keds without the laces – apparently laces are dangerous for suicide risk patients – and he’s wearing thick socks like he does ninety nine percent of the time ‘cause his feet are always _fucking freezing_.

They’re talking about sex and masturbation of all things, which normally would make him squirm where he was sitting, but this is Pixie and nothing surprises him or makes him uncomfortable anymore.

“So how often do you get off?” she asks suddenly, switching from the story about her best friend buying her a vibrator so quickly he thinks he might have backlash or something from turning his neck to look at her. She laughs at the expression on his face. “Well? I mean . . . you had to know I was going to ask eventually.”

They don’t talk much about Pete, though Harry’s mentioned that he’s still out there somewhere and Pixie knows most of his cuts and the scar on his face are from him.

He bites down on his lip and looks away from her, staring at the off white wall in front of him and suddenly regretting agreeing with her when she had grabbed his hand and suggested they ‘disappear’ for a little while.

“I don’t,” he finally says. “I mean I _have_ , but not very often. It’s just . . .” He shrugs.

“Because of him?”

“I’m not sure. I guess so? What other plausible excuse is there?”

“Maybe you’re like . . . asexual. Any sexual attraction going on? Do you _want_ to have sex?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, I do . . . I think. But whenever I get, y’know, I usually just take a cold shower. It’s easier to deal with that way.”

She hums, deep in thought. He chances the thought that maybe they’re done talking about it, but then she says, “Maybe you just need some help,” and she places her hand on his thigh and squeezes.

He practically chokes on the air that he sucks in. “I don’t know about that,” but he doesn’t move her hand.

“Oh come on.” She trails her fingers up and down his leg, getting closer and closer to his crotch every time. She leans in close, her breath hot in his ear. “We make out all the time.”

“Yeah, but this, obviously, is a little different.” His words come out even more slowly than usual.

She sighs. “Tell me to stop and I will.” She pauses for a moment, looks him in the eye with this expression that tells him she’s serious; if he says stop, she will. But he finds he doesn’t want her to. Not because it's _her_ or anything - they make out all the time, but there's nothing remotely romantic between them - but because he wants to know if he can. He's a little terrified, but intrigued. And he realizes he's just using Pixie and he should feel bad about that, but he knows she's using him, too.

She starts palming him through his jeans and he manages a quick look towards the door. He’s about to voice the fact that _even if I wanted you doing this, you shouldn’t be doing it_ here _of all places_ , but then she’s unzipping his pants and reaching a hand inside to palm him through his boxers and.

And well it actually feels good.

 _Well no shit it feels good_ , he thinks idly, but he’s actually getting hard which is kind of a surprise. A bigger surprise is he’s still not pushing her away, not asking her to stop.

“See, I can make you feel good, baby.” She nibbles on his ear, giggles, and then pulls his cock out. He’s almost fully hard now and she rubs her thumb over the slit, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. She works her hand up and down, twisting a little and using his pre-come to make the process easier. She presses soft kisses and bites to his throat, which is mildly distracting and he tightens his hands into fists at his side.

He doesn’t last long, of course, because _hello_ – he’s sixteen-years-old and has gotten himself off like five times total in his entire life. Plus, Pixie is hot and nineteen-years-old and plenty of guys with a better stamina than him probably would have lasted just as long.

He refuses to acknowledge the fact that right before he comes, Louis’ face flashes before his eyes and he wonders what the older boy’s hand around him would feel like, because thinking about your best friend while a hot girl is giving you a hand job is definitely not okay.

Pixie lets out a throaty giggly borderline moan when he comes all over her hand. He pants a little, trying to catch his breath and they both just sit there, staring where her hand is still on his now sensitive, softening dick, and the come on both.

“Well that was probably a little stupid,” she admits, but laughs again, and then – and he seriously almost gets hard again right then and there – she lifts her hand to her mouth and starts licking her fingers clean. She zips him up when she’s done, like what she just did was no big deal even though he’s pretty sure it is; he doesn’t have any experience with girls whatsoever and his experience with boys is limited to kissing Louis, but he’s pretty sure most people don’t just lick come off their fingers like it’s candy.

She stands up so he does too, then she points to his hair. Louis’s always doing that, pointing to his hair and telling him to fix his fringe, so he doesn’t hesitate in shaking it out and flicking it back into place.

She blinks up at him a couple times, looking a little dazed.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing, just.” She shakes her head again, smiles a little. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

Things are definitely not the same after that.


	12. More Than He’s Ever Wanted Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, i would like to say despite the fact that in response to the last chapter i got my first ever hate mail (regarding a fic at least) i also got more kudos and comments and hits than i've ever gotten after a single posting. so. thank you x 
> 
> i want to thank my beta [larcellstylinson](larcellstylinson.tumblr.com) for being amazing and also jess for being my personal cheerleader and making me feel like less of a failure while writing this (also to all you readers for being so awesome x) 
> 
> WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY... if you've read this far, you probably understand that harry's not always in his 'right mind' i guess you could say. there's a part of this chapter that may seem like i'm saying abuse is okay or warranted. i'm not. it's just harry's train of thought at that moment. also this is kind of a filler. fluffiness to come, i promise. x

Harry tries really hard to make himself fall in love with Pixie.

Or at least feel something more than gratitude and physical attraction.

They keep making out, the hand jobs continue, and he even, awkwardly at first, gets her off with his fingers a couple times.

But it’s not enough. Nothing changes.

He still pictures Louis’ hands and Louis’ lips and Louis’ face. Still gets that odd feeling in his stomach (not butterflies, he’ll go to the grave denying it, he’s not a fucking fourteen-year-old girl) whenever Louis comes to visit.

Pixie helps a lot, sure. She makes the long weeks easier and the group sessions less boring. They share inside jokes and come up with nicknames for all the nurses who piss them off.

But nothing compares to that feeling he gets when he sees Louis’ bright eyes and cancer-curing smile. He’s so alive and warm and full of magic. He’s Christmas morning, running down the stairs to see what Santa brought. He’s the perfect cup of tea after a hard day. He’s that first trip to Disney Land.

And Harry tries to tell that feeling inside of him, the excitement in his chest and the fluttering in his stomach, to shut up and go away because he knows Louis is the one thing he can’t have.

But Harry wants him. He wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Harry’s getting better. He _know_ _s_ he’s getting better. And not just in an ‘oh my clothes are fitting’ or ‘I’m taking my medicine’ kind of way; he’s actually improving mentally, physically, emotionally. He can feel things changing.

When he first started taking his medication, they had twisted his emotions every which way. He had turned zombie-like, even more so than when he had been off of them. He had felt numb, like nothing could affect him. He shoveled food into his mouth without feeling, he got dressed and showered without feeling, he listened to his psychiatrist and social worker talk without _feeling_.

That's not to say he didn’t have days where he didn’t want to get out of bed or he fought against the food they gave him. (Peanut butter, gallops and gallops of peanut butter at every meal.) But overall, he felt . . . well, empty. Blank. Almost non-existing.

Meeting Pixie helped improve things. He started laughing and smiling and joking around again. It didn’t bother him as much that he was slowly but surely gaining weight.

Now most of the side effects of the medication have subsided. His spells of anger and depression are few and far between, and his doctors have informed him that he has reached a healthy weight.

He tells Louis and his mum and Gemma the news with a smile on his face, the promise of getting out of there, his release, on the edge of the horizon.

He’s ready to go home.

His psychiatrist, though, apparently doesn’t agree.

And it’s like a punch to the chest he hadn't seen coming. All the air is knocked out of him and he keeps struggling for purchase, to make sense of what everyone is saying. Over three months of hard work and they think he ‘isn’t there yet.’ Hadn’t the doctor at the hospital said most patients only stayed for three months? Why does he need to be there longer?

To top it all off, the very first weekend of his fourth month there, Pixie is transferred.

There’s some talk that she isn’t improving any and she only has four months left until she’s officially no longer a teenager anyway so. They move her to the adult wing.

Her goodbye is quick and sad; she squeezes him tightly even though there’s a no touching rule between the patients. They’ve broken that enough in the time they’ve been there, so he doesn’t really care.

He doesn’t want to blame his slow descent into depression again on Pixie leaving – he can’t admit the slight(ly unhealthy)  _attachment_ he had begun to feel towards her. But her leaving and him having to spend _at least_ another month in the ward, doesn’t make anything easier for him.

And he slowly starts retreating into his shell again.

It starts with his food. It’s almost like a natural reflex, so easy just to fall back into the routine of pushing his food around his plate instead of actually eating it. He cuts it up into tiny pieces, thinking that’ll fool the nurses, but it doesn’t. They force him into drinking weight-gain protein drinks at the end of the night that taste God-awful and nearly have him throwing up into a trash can the first couple of times.

The nurses give him looks that start off as concerned and quickly turn into disappointing. But what’s the point? He’s going to be stuck in the place for God knows how long. Why should he even try?

His clothes get a little looser, but nothing like they were before. He’s getting taller, stretching everything out, and one day he finds Louis’ jumpers no longer reach his wrists. 

(That doesn’t stop him from wearing them, of course.)

He can’t help but wonder how long it’s going to take to work off everything he’s gained. All that hard work, all those years of purging and starving, flushed down the toilet.

He starts smoking too. It’s not a conscious decision at first. The eating disorder kids _always_ hang out on the back patio because all but like two of them smoke. One day a girl offers him a cigarette and he takes it without thinking. And then he just starts bumming them off the patients, stashing them away in his bedroom, and finding ways to buy his own.

It’s not something he admits to. His social worker comes to talk to him one day, finds him outside smoking with a ginger-haired girl he can’t remember the name of, and gives him a stern look like she expected better of him.

Which is just great. Everyone expects better of him.

He doesn’t tell his mum or Louis or Gemma, but Lou keeps giving him these odd looks, like he _knows_. He probably does. Louis has always been kind of psychic like that, and Harry’s pretty careless – can probably smell it on his clothes.

Their visits start changing too. Harry talks less and less, touches become rarer; when his mum goes in for a hug one Saturday afternoon before she leaves, he actually flinches.

The worst part is he can’t even find it in him to feel guilty about it; she’s the one who fucking put him in the hospital in the first place.

He’s just, he’s tired. He’s tired of being in the stupid psych ward. He’s tired of people telling him what’s _wrong_ with him. Like he doesn’t already fucking _know_ what’s wrong with him. He’s tired of people staring at him and he’s tired of them trying to make him eat. He’s tired of being unhappy. He’s tired of being tired.

He wants to go home. He wants to be in control of his body and his life again. He misses the distraction fooling around with Pixie brought. He misses laughing and smiling. He misses Louis.

Louis doesn’t change, doesn’t act like anything is different, like he can’t tell what’s going on, and Harry doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Doesn’t know if he would prefer it if Louis would just scream at him and tell him to man the fuck up.

 

And then, in the middle of October, things crash and burn.

Harry’s never gone more than a week without cutting himself, so these past four and a half months have been pure torture. He rakes his nails up and down his arms, searching for some kind of relief. It’s like an _actual_ itch. He can feel it spreading up his arms. The more it spreads, the closer it feels like it’s actually strangling him. Like spider webs are wrapping themselves up his arms and around his torso, squeezing the life out of him.

One day he’s sitting up in his bed, rereading Harry Potter, and he bangs his head back against the wall on accident. It’s hard enough he can feel a dull throb in the back of his skull and when he does it again, harder, he feels dizzy for a couple minutes. He repeats it, only when he’s in his room alone and knows no one is coming to check on him for at least fifteen minutes.

It gets to the point he’s got a near-constant headache, but he doesn’t mind.

 

He doesn’t think his snapping point boils down to one exact moment in time or anything. It’s probably everything added up and the fact that he hasn’t been dealing with his problems, has just been making them worse.

He’s completely silent in his therapy sessions and in every group session, still refuses to believe he has an eating disorder, rejects anything that sounds too clinical. He doesn't belong here anyways. So what if his step-father pushed him around a bit? Parents punish their children when they do something wrong.

If he could pinpoint an exact moment that sets him off the deep end though, it would be in his Friday therapy appointment with his psychiatrist.

He does not like his psychiatrist. He’s already talked to his assigned social worker about getting a new one, but she keeps telling him to ‘stick it out a little bit longer’ like things are just magically going to change.

Dr. Kilmer is a young man, in his early thirties. Harry’s heard the female nurses call him Dr. Romeo behind his back, but he supposes that’s only because they don’t actually know what he’s like in his sessions. (Harry’s talked to all the other patients who have him – they hate him, too.) Dr. Kilmer is full of it, plain and simple. He thinks he knows what he’s talking about and the one time Harry actually spoke to him and suggested he might have some sort of mood disorder (everything just felt magnified to him) Dr. Kilmer had actually _rolled his eyes_ and then laughed, brushing him off like he was some child.

So, Harry really only ends up talking when he absolutely has to, which translates to never.

“So Harry,” Dr. Kilmer ends the session the same way every time, “you’ve been here for almost five months.” Nod. “Are you ready to go home?” He asks this question every Friday session. Harry nods again, like he does every Friday.

Then he asks Harry a question he’s never asked before. He asks it in a joking, borderline mocking tone, almost like he can’t believe he has to waste his time on this fucked up sixteen-year-old.

“If I release you are you going to go home and kill yourself?”

Harry’s pretty sure his hands clench into fists where they’re hidden in the pockets of his hoodie. He wants to jump across the room and strangle the guy because _what the fuck_ kind of question is that? Instead he just shakes his head once.

“We’ll see how you do this week.” Same as every other week.

Harry nods.

 

The rest of the day goes by smoothly until nine o’clock rolls around and his name is being called over the sound system to go downstairs and pick up his medicine. He’s been lying in bed reading, but he gets up and trudges down the hallway, wrapping his fleece blanket around his shoulders.

The nurse scans his medical bracelet and then turns her attention to the computer screen. He can’t see it, but he knows it lists all his medical history and what medications he’s supposed to take and when and how much.

“The doctor upped your anti-psychotic,” she whispers, as if someone is actually listening or he even cares if everyone knows he’s on anti-psychotic medicine. He’s not the only one; half the people in the ward are on it. Dr. Kilmer just thinks it will ‘calm him down;' which Harry thinks is fucking hilarious. But whatever.

It’s not the first time they’ve upped it and he’s reminded of when Pixie made the comment that the medicine was making her gain weight – she was on the same anti-psychotic that he was. It was the _only_ medication she was on besides her sleeping pills . . . and that wouldn’t really have ‘weight gain’ as a side effect would it?

He stares down at the two little red pills, acting like they’re the bane of his existence, the cause of all his problems. They are in the cup next to two white pills they prescribed him for the migraines he’s been getting - the same pills he's always taken for his migraines, the same pills he overdosed on. He wonders, idly, if the hospital knows this, if they'd keep him on this medicine if they knew looking at them reminds him of the lowest point of his existence. 

Suddenly he’s filled with the urge to set the little cup back down and walk away. He doesn’t want to take any of them. The red ones taste like shit and for all he knows, they’re making him gain weight. 

So, more calmly than he thought possible, he sets the pill cup back on the counter top and shakes his head.

The nurse looks up suddenly; she had been going through the list to see who is next. (Harry could tell her; he’s been here long enough. Stanley Walker always picks his meds up after him.)

“Take your medicine, dear.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t feel like it.”

She smiles a little, looking uncomfortable. “You don’t really have a choice.”

That’s right, he wants to say, no choice. He’s not in control of _anything_. He shakes his head again, shrugs his shoulders like _what’re you gonna do about it_ , and accidentally runs into another one of the nurses while taking a step backwards. He looks up at her and she places a hand on his shoulder. He freezes, thinks back to the rule, the no-touching one, and wonders if it applies to the doctors, too.

The nurse with her hand on his shoulder places the cup into his hand. “Styles, right? You need to take your pills. You won’t get better if you don’t.”

Harry wants to laugh. He’s not getting better anyways.

His hand crushes around the plastic cup. “I don’t want them,” he says slowly, each word its own sentence.

His instincts take over and there’s a split second where he thinks, _oh, kilmer was right, I do have a problem controlling my impulses_ and then he’s throwing the cup containing the four pills at the wall. It’s a little dramatic, even for him, and he watches the pills hit the wall and fall to the floor. There’s three beats of silence before the nurse, still with her hand on his shoulder, says something he can’t quite make out and is then holding out four more pills.

He shoves away from her, a little more harshly than he intended, and she takes a couple steps back. The pills fall to the ground again, but this time he doesn’t stay to watch them. He starts backing up toward the staircase, thinking if he just gets back to his room, everything will be okay.

Someone wraps a hand around his shoulder and he tries to shove them off, but he’s weak and they’re not and his arms are being brought together behind his back. He pushes and pulls and screams and then everything goes dark.

 

 

 

He wakes up strapped to a hospital bed. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out or even what caused him to pass out in the first place. He’s got a God-awful headache and the lights are too bright. He wants to scream and cry and maybe punch someone in the face. He opens his mouth to do just that – maybe yell for someone to come untie him – when the door opens and Louis walks in.

Harry snaps his mouth shut, tilts his head in confusion, but – as cliché as it sounds and probably is – he feels himself calm down a little bit.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, skipping past any awkward greetings.

Louis doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, looking like he wants to smack Harry across the head. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

Harry frowns in response, is taken back by Louis’ tone. He presses his lips together and shrugs, thinks of saying something along the lines of _being held captive apparently_ but knows his dry sense of humor probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

The hospital room isn’t as nice as the one across the street at the actual hospital. The chair Louis pulls up is plastic and squeaks when he takes a seat. He continues shaking his head, though Harry thinks it’s more out of disbelief than anything. He doesn’t look upset or disappointed at least, just tired.

Harry wants to let everything out, wants to say _you don’t understand, you don’t know what it’s like_ , and that he just felt out of sync with himself. He needs control over _something_ in his life, even if it’s just what pills he takes at the end of the day.

He wants Louis to understand why. He feels like he’s suffocating, his skin is itching, and his stomach feels too full. He feels awkward and uncomfortable, like he doesn’t fit right in his skin, and he wishes he could just cut himself right down the middle and step out of his body for a little while.

He’s filled with this overwhelming fear that he’s gone too far this time, that Louis is going to get up and leave.

He doesn’t say any of that, though. What he does say is, “I have to do it. I have to. You don’t understand.”

The older boy’s eyes widen like he's confused. He frowns. “Why?”

Harry shakes his head. “I just do. It’s what I deserve.”

“No you don’t,” Louis argues. “You don’t deserve anything you’ve been put through.” Harry gets ready to argue back, but Louis shakes his head, stopping him, and says, “What he did to you was _not okay_ , Harry. Do you understand? You didn't deserve any of it. Everyone messes up and everyone screws up, but none of them deserve to be thrown around or beat or raped. Least of all you. Okay? You are a _good_ person." Louis doesn't even give Harry a chance to say anything. "You’re going to come live with me once you get out of here, okay?” Harry’s mouth drops open a little in surprise. “I already talked to your mum and my mum, so don’t even think about arguing. They both think it’s a good idea.”

(Like he would argue, _please_.)

He snaps his mouth shut and nods.

Louis sits up straight then and looks him square in the eye, all gentleness gone. “You have to be good, though. No more beating yourself up,” he picks up Harry’s hand – evidence of the ‘beating himself up’ (he’d punched a few walls) which is bruised – “no more throwing pills at walls.” His eyes narrow a little. “You have to take them and you have to eat. You need to get healthy.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue again, because that is actually more difficult than Louis understands, more than he would care to admit.

“I know it’s going to be hard,” Louis soothes, brushing his hand over Harry’s knuckles. “But just try, okay?” He looks up at Harry from underneath his ridiculously long eyelashes. “For me, okay? And for yourself. I really worry about you.”

Harry lets out a long breath he’s been holding in and shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I can try.”

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world – which it probably is by now – Louis leans in. Harry fists Louis’ shirt (as much as he can with his arms strapped to the bed) and pulls him close. He doesn’t actually know who initiates it, but then they’re kissing so it doesn’t matter.

Pixie was a great kisser and all, but this, this is something else, something completely different. It’s like the breath of fresh air he had been searching for the past five months. The release he needed to finally let everything go.

Louis is familiar but foreign at the same time. Tasting like vanilla and strawberries – which, _really_ , he wants to ask Louis what the hell he’s been eating or sticking in his mouth to make him taste like vanilla – when he usually tastes like the spearmint gum he’s always chewing.

And when Louis runs a hand through his curls, he melts, even when Louis tugs a little at the back to get him to slow down, Harry just keeps pulling him closer.

When Louis finally pulls back with a smile on his face and that just-been-kissed look, all Harry can think is _well, fuck_.


	13. You Are a Rock

It takes nearly two months, two long months full of struggling and fighting and healing, for Harry to finally be considered healthy and stable enough to leave the residential care unit.

The two months are full of days where he flat out does not want to eat and all he can think about is how much weight he’s gained and how much he hates himself. There are days where he’s so depressed he literally _cannot_ get out of bed. There are days where he has flashbacks and all he can remember is the cool press of fingers to his skin. Sometimes it’s bad enough he ends up waking and sobbing to his psychiatrist – a female doctor this time; he finally got the new one he’s been asking for - over the phone in the middle of the night.

She changes his anti-depressants, takes him off the anti-psychotic medicine, and puts him on mood stabilizers.

He begins to eat more, slowly at first; sometimes he ends up on the floor of the bathroom, fighting the urge to throw it all up again. He eventually moves past it, though even at the best of times it’s still a struggle. He gradually stops smoking cigarettes, too. It’s more difficult than he expected. He misses how much they calmed him down and continuously fights the urge to ease back into the habit.

He punches a couple more walls, even breaks his hand, but he shows improvement. He sticks to his promise and really tries. He still doesn’t talk in group that often, but that’s cause group is stupid. In art therapy he draws more accurate pictures of himself, finally admitting that yeah, maybe he does have disordered eating habits (he won’t go as far as admitting he has an actual disorder, likes to keep away from all the technical terms). He confesses to his doctor about how worried he is he’ll start cutting again when he leaves, but that’s what she’s there for, to help him through it, and that it’s okay if he slips up, no one’s perfect.

And _that_ , that’s what sets him free in the end, he thinks, the realization that he doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s hard for him to accept; in the past every time he did something wrong, he was punished, and it’s hard not to continue that way of thinking.

He gets awful panic attacks where his whole body heats up and he feels like he’s on fire, like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and _killing himself_ , he thinks, is the only possible solution. It happens badly a couple times, leaving him panting in the bathroom or getting a shot from the nurse to calm him down ‘cause it’s just too much for him to handle.

Louis is there for it all, visiting whenever he can – more than he’s supposed to actually, but the nurses must think he’s some kind of special case ‘cause they always sneak Louis in, winking and saying things like ‘it’ll be our little secret.’

Or maybe they just realize how infatuated Harry is with the older boy, how much Louis being there pushes him closer to getting better.

It’s something else he’s slowly coming to terms with and he talks to his psychologist about it; she quickly jumps on the Louis/Harry bandwagon, exclaiming – very unprofessionally, she admits – how adorable she thinks the two of them are.

He’s not even sure he _likes_ Louis like that though, thinks it’s just some kind of bond, like he needs Louis, needs him like air, like he’s his own personal brand of anti-depressant (a joke he’s made a couple times which Louis never fails to crack up at.) At first he tries not to ponder the idea of liking Louis as more than a friend, but apparently that’s ‘counterproductive’. He’s pretty sure liking Louis has nothing to do with his road to recovery, but if his psychologist wants to talk about ‘Larry’ – as she has now deemed them – instead of Pete, then so be it; he’s not going to argue.

The day that Harry finally does ‘graduate’ he’s shaky and nervous for unknown reasons. His mum and Louis are coming to pick him up and he’s shoving all his clothes into his bag, his fingers fumbling with the zippers.

He got a new roommate about a week ago – one who doesn’t snore, thank God – but Harry’s kept to himself mostly since Pixie left, so when Todd (he thinks that’s his name at least) comes into their shared room and sees all Harry’s luggage, all he says is, “Congrats, mate. Good luck,” and heads to their bathroom.

In the lobby, Louis and Harry’s mum are waiting. Anne’s talking to one of the doctor’s and his social worker, filling out paperwork and signing things because Harry’s too young to check himself out. Louis is staring straight at him, smiling, and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He nearly rushes forward to envelop Harry in a hug.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he breathes out against Harry’s ear. Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t mention the fact that they literally saw each other the day before because he knows that’s not what Louis meant. He just hugs him back.

When they finally leave doctors and nurses don’t line up aside the door and no one claps. He gets a hand shake from his social worker, and then a ‘call me if you need anything ever’ plus a hug from his psychologist. That’s it.

And then he’s walking out the door and trying to cover his eyes from the blinding sun.

They find a Nando’s to eat at and really, it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s the first time he’s eaten outside of the hospital in a hell of a long time so after they sit down he kind of just stares at his food for a second, knowing his mum is watching and waiting. He’s got his psychologist’s number in his back pocket and he knows he could call her _right now_ and she would answer and talk him through it, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

He tries to ignore his mum's gaze and starts picking at his chicken, peeling off the skin so it’s at least somewhat healthy.

(They talked a lot about that in therapy, how to eat healthy and keep your body in shape. Of course, they also talked a lot about pushing it _too_ far, how to pace yourself.)

The drive to Louis’ house takes forty five minutes. Harry hadn’t realized it was that long of a trip and he squeezes the older boy’s hand in gratitude as they get closer, remembering, vividly, times Louis would come up to see him two or three times in one week.

The welcome is nothing like the last time he had been to the Tomlinson’s. Jay immediately wraps him in a tight hug and Harry just kind of sinks into it, well aware that both his mum and Louis are watching. When Jay pulls back she’s smiling, and she pats his cheek.

“It’s good to have you back, love.”

The girls stay back, all standing in a line except for Daisy who is kind of hiding behind Fizzy. They stare at him for a few minutes, extremely reserved with wide eyes, while Jay and Anne talk. Harry can only guess there was some sort of warning before he showed up, and he wonders what exactly Jay told them. She knows the whole story, Harry gave Louis permission when he asked if he could tell her, but he said nothing about telling his sisters.

Lottie breaks free first and looks hesitant for a moment before pulling him in for a quick three second hug.

“We missed you, Harry,” she says, her voice unusually soft. She smiles and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear before nodding towards the other girls.

He’s about to say _it hasn’t been_ that _long_ , but then he realizes it’s been nearly seven months.

Fizz is next, though much more reluctant than Lottie. She kind of just stands in front of him for a couple minutes and blurts out that she hopes he’s feeling better, before hugging him then running back to hide behind her older sister.

Phoebe marches forward then, boldly with her hands on her hips. “ _Why_ haven’t you been back to see me?” It breaks the ice that’s been settled over the moment and they all laugh. Phoebe flushes and he bends down to pull her into a hug.

“I’m sorry. I won’t stay away for as long next time, okay?” He hopes at least he won’t be away from the Tomlinson’s for that long ever again. He thinks about turning to Louis and telling him that even if their friendship fails for some reason or another, he’s still going to come visit his sisters and mum, all in a teasing tone of course, but he doesn't, doesn't want to think about not being in Louis' life - joking or not. 

Phoebe nods, looking satisfied, and reaches for her sister, who stumbles forward.

“I heard you got hurt, Harry,” she says in her quiet, shy voice. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles. “It’s okay.”

“Are you all better now?”

He nods. “I’m getting there.”

She looks contemplative for a moment then blurts out, “Did you get an owie?” 

Everyone kind of freezes, but Harry laughs. On a whim, he brushes back the fringe covering part of his forehead and shows her the thin white scar running over his eyebrow. Her eyes go wide as she follows it.

“Ouch. Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurt a lot.” He frowns.

“I’m not supposed to ask you what happened.”

Harry chuckles a little. “That’s okay. I got into an accident.”

She nods and throws her arms around him. “I’m glad you’re better.”

When he stands up Louis is staring at him.  “You did well with her,” he says quietly.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be dragged into the living room.

“I missed you the most,” Phoebe proclaims loudly, dropping herself into his lap when he sits down.

Lottie snorts. “I think Louis missed him the most actually.”

He doesn’t miss Louis reaching out to shove against her shoulder gently.

Harry laughs and thinks, _good to be home_.

~*~*~*~*~ 

His mum and Jay talk for quite a while but eventually it gets to be too late and Anne has to go. She says goodbye to Harry, makes this long speech about how proud she is of him and how sorry she is (even though she didn’t do anything wrong) with tears trickling out of the corner of her eye, then heads off to her mum’s house. Harry's been worried about her, everything that happened must've taken a toll on her, but he's glad to see she's doing a little better. 

He and Louis don’t do much that evening. They watch a couple movies with the girls and have a quick dinner. Harry does let himself freak out this time and locks himself in the bathroom to call his psychologist. They talk for thirty minutes before he’s able to go out to the dining room. By then everyone else is already done, so he eats slowly, with Louis sitting beside him, chattering along and distracting him enough he finishes most of his food without even realizing it.

They go to bed early, Louis tucked in on his side. Harry’s got a cup of tea in his hand and he’s sipping at it slowly. He’d told Louis that he’s still having trouble sleeping, so he’d made Harry the cup, claiming it always helped him when he couldn’t sleep.

“Are you glad to be home?” he asks.

The way he says home makes something curl in Harry’s chest, like this is as much his room as it is Louis’. He wraps his free arm around the smaller boy and nods.

“Yeah. And I’m really happy I got out before your birthday. I would have hated missing it.”

Louis chuckles. “It’s not a big deal.”

“We’ll do something special to make up for me being such a shitty friend.”

Louis sits up suddenly. “You have _not_ been a shitty friend. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He leans in and presses their lips together, feather light and barely lasting a second. “Now go to sleep," he orders in a tone that has Harry pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.

Still, he listens, sets his nearly finished tea aside and scoots down on the bed so they’re lying side by side. Louis starts to roll over but Harry pulls him over, letting the older boy drape across his chest.

“I thought this bothered you,” he half-teases.

Harry shakes his head. “Missed you,” and then he’s drifting off to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

The days drag on and before Harry knows it, it’s the day before Louis’ birthday – Christmas Eve Eve. He and Jay and Lottie and Liam have been planning Louis a huge surprise birthday party, with Harry and Jay in charge of the cooking while Lottie makes sure to decorate the entire house with help from her three sisters. Liam’s out and about with Louis, distracting him till it’s party time; he’s already made sure to get ahold of all Louis’ friends from school.

Harry’s heard about maybe half of them and so it’s nice to finally put a face to each name. He stays in the kitchen most of the time, only meeting the few that meander in to talk to Jay or see what's cooking that smells so good. He’s a little surprised at the fact that some of the people actually know who _he_ is.

A blonde pops up beside Harry while he’s getting ready to put the cake in the oven and says, “Someone told me Harry Styles was in the kitchen. Is that true? Are you Harry Styles?” Harry stares down at her, a little confused, but nods his head slowly. Her face breaks out into a wide smile. “You’re the one Lou’s texting all the time! Oh my _God_ , you are adorable,” she exclaims with laughter. “He does _not_ shut up about you.”

Harry feels his cheeks heat up but before he can say anything, a boy who had introduced himself as Stan, is sliding up behind her.

“Are you as amazing as Lou says you are?” he asks quizically. His eyes are narrowed almost suspiciously.

Harry can’t help but snort. “No, probably not. Louis tends to exaggerate a bit.”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right about that. How’d you guys meet, then?”

After slipping the cake into the oven, he pulls off the mitts and drops them on the counter. He turns around, leaning up against it with his hands pressed down. “Um, at a concert. He bombarded me in the bathroom,” Harry jokes. “Then saved his number in my phone as ‘stud from the script concert.’”

“So you guys actually did meet in the bathroom!” The blonde exclaims. “I thought he was lying.” She shakes her head. “I’m Hannah, by the way,” she continues, sticking out her hand for him to shake.

The name clicks in his head at once. He shakes her hand, nodding. “Oh, okay. You’re the one who was in Grease with him.”

Hannah lights up. “He told you about me, eh?”

Harry nods slowly. Louis told him about Stan, too, and Stan had just said, ‘ _course he did, I’m_ awesome’ with a shrug. The way her face brightens though, her cheeks tinted just the slightest pink, makes Harry think he’s missing out on something. Then it dawns on him, why her expression is so familiar; she’s got a crush on Louis. He’d forgotten momentarily that ninety nine percent of the people at this party don’t know he’s gay.

It makes him feel weird inside, even though he has no reason at all to be jealous of a _girl_.

“We’re really close,” Hannah goes on. “Like best mates.”

Harry doesn’t know whether or not she’s being serious; she’s about the fifth person who has come up to Harry and told him that they’re Louis’ best friend.

Stan scoffs. “He loves me more. _I’m_ his best friend.”

“No,” Hannah argues. “You’re like third on his list of best friends.”

“Right, and who is first and second might I ask?”

“Me and Liam.”

“No. It’s Liam first, then me, _then_ maybe you.”

Harry can’t help but wonder idly where at he would be on this imaginary list.

He goes back to fixing the food and tries to tune them out.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Liam texts Harry when they’re five minutes away from the house; he can’t help but feel a little smug about it because Liam texts _him_ and not Stan or Hannah or Jessie or Paul or Nick or anyone of Louis' other supposed best friends.

They all hide, and seconds later they can hear Louis’ voice on the other side of the door. He thinks for a second he hears his name, but then Liam’s laughing – obnoxiously loud – and the door opens and they all jump up and yell _surprise_ and Louis takes a startled step back.

“OH MY GOD,” he practically yells, laughing and looking around the crowded room. His eyes are bright with excitement. Phoebe and Daisy are jumping all over him. He picks Daisy up into his arms easily, keeping his hand on the top of Phoebe’s head. “I did _not_  see that coming. Whose idea was this?” he asks, looking around and meeting each set of eyes. Harry’s in the back of the room, a little hidden, and he starts backing away because it was _his_ idea.

But then Jay and Liam are both saying, “It was Harry’s idea,” and Lottie’s saying, “Your boyfriend’s.”

Louis stands on the tips of his toes, looking over the heads till he meets Harry’s eyes. His smile widens and he sets down his sister and moves through the crowd of people till he’s in front of Harry.

“ _Harry_.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“I told you you’d have the best birthday party ever!” Harry defends, curling in on himself a little; he doesn’t like being the center of attention, and everyone's eyes are on them.

Louis just keeps shaking his head and pulls him in for a hug. He just barely hears Hannah whisper, “Okay, so Harry’s his favorite, but I’m definitely third behind Liam.”

Harry just hugs Louis tighter and tries not to think about how much being Louis’ favorite would mean a lot more to him than it probably should.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Harry’s sitting on the couch, sandwiched between some girl named Beth with long eyelashes who wants to argue with him about whether Coldplay is better than The Fray, and some girl named Heidi who just wants to play with his hair. He doesn’t mind her hands in his hair though, because she’s not even doing much of anything, just kind of feeling it and brushing it with her fingers gently. She keeps prattling on about how soft it is and asking what he uses on it.

(He would tell her – Louis’ shampoo – but that might be kind of weird, especially considering Louis uses _girl_ shampoo that smells like coconuts.)

Louis suddenly drops into his lap, which is pretty much a daily occurrence so he doesn’t think anything of it, just wraps his arm around the older boy’s waist and keeps telling Beth that Issac Slade is a much better singer than Chris Martin. And she looks so shocked and offended when he tells her he doesn’t think Green Eyes is that good of a song that he has to start laughing.

Then Louis’ mouth is right up against his ear and he’s singing. “ _Honey, you are a rock_.” Harry freezes up just a little bit. Louis’ warm breath is tickling his ear and the side of his neck. His voice just shoots straight through him. And he’s only singing loud enough for Harry to hear, no one else. “ _Upon which I stand_.” Beth’s still talking about Coldplay and Heidi is still playing with his hair, but Harry can’t focus on anything except for Louis and Louis’ voice.

“ _And I come here to talk. I hope you understand_.” He hums a little. “ _The green eyes,_ ” he runs a finger over Harry’s cheek, right under his eye, _“yeah the spotlight, shines upon you. And how could anybody deny you_?” His voice is sultry – if a voice could even be _defined_ as sultry – but completely serious, like he’s honestly asking how anybody could deny Harry. And Harry feels goose bumps rising on his arms.

“ _I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter now I met you_.” He sings a little louder, moving his mouth to press against Harry’s neck. He bites a little at the skin gently, before moving back up to Harry’s ear. “ _And honey you should know_ ,” he’s barely singing now, more like he’s talking, but it still sends chills through Harry’s body, “ _that I could never go on without you_.”

He turns to look at Louis, because he can’t _not_ look at Louis after that. He knows it’s just a Coldplay song and someone else's lyrics, but it’s like Louis was singing right to him and he can’t just ignore that.

Scanning over his face quickly, Harry notes that Louis isn’t just singing like he does sometimes (all the time) and there’s no teasing look on his face. He’s got this small smile on his face and he’s not looking away and Harry wants nothing more than to kiss him in that moment, wishes they were alone so he could. Louis doesn’t seem to care though, because he leans forward and presses their lips together. It’s not a long kiss or anything, but the rest of the world just kind of shuts up for a second. The hand not around his waist moves up to cup the back of Louis' neck, his fingers brushing the ends of Louis' hair. He’s vaguely aware that Beth isn’t talking anymore, though Heidi’s still playing with his hair. In fact, a lot of conversation in the room seems to cut off, and Stan clears his throat just before Louis pulls back.

Some people are staring at them, of course, but most people just go back to their conversations. Harry’s thankful to see Jay and the girls aren’t in the room – though Lottie is and she’s grinning at him like _I knew it, I knew it, I knew it_ – and neither is Liam.

Stan asks, “Something you need to tell us, Lou?” with a twinkling in his eye.

Not looking away from Harry, Louis says, “Hm? Oh, yeah. I’m gay,” and then he shrugs and stands up.

Stan grins and claps him on the back. “Good for you.”

No one looks overly surprised except for Hannah, whose mouth is hanging open a little. She frowns and mutters just loud enough for Harry to hear, “Definitely his favorite.”

And then Jay, Liam and the girls bring in the cake Harry spent hours making, and everyone starts singing ‘Happy Birthday.’

~*~*~*~*~ 

That night, when they’re in bed, Harry rolls over and presses his lips to Louis’ forehead momentarily.

“Happy Birthday,” he whispers, barely audible.

Louis blinks his eyes open, half-asleep, and smiles up at him. “Thank you. For everything. Mostly just for being here.”

“Where else would I be?” he jokes.

Louis just shakes his head and closes his eyes. He clutches onto the front of Harry’s jumper. “Just thank you.” His breathing evens out a couple seconds later.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Anne and Gemma join the Tomlinson’s for Christmas. It’s a loud event, with the girls running around and wrapping paper strewn across the floor.

Harry gets Louis two tickets to see Grease on stage and Louis' face literally  _lights up_ and he plants one on him right in front of everyone. He didn't have a lot of time to go shopping, but Louis had helped him out, and the girls seem pleased with their presents from him.

It’s the first Christmas in a long time where the smile on his face hasn’t been for show.

 ~*~*~*~*~

They don’t really do much for New Year’s Eve. Liam’s family comes over and they watch fireworks outside together until the girls get tired and cold and head in. Louis heads inside with Liam to wish everyone a happy New Year but Harry stays outside 'cause he doesn't wanna miss any of the show.

He’s sitting on the trunk of Louis’ car when the older boy comes back outside, wrapped in a jumper.

“Aren’t you freezing?” he asks, jumping up beside him.

Harry shrugs and shakes his head.

It’s fifteen minutes past midnight, but Louis leans over and kisses him anyway. “Happy New Year, Harry.”

Somewhere deep inside Harry, he’s secretly hoping nothing changes, that he gets a New Year’s kiss from Louis every year.

~*~*~*~*~

Louis and Harry hang out with Liam a lot while he’s back from University for January break. He’d been studying Music Management and Pre-Med in Manchester. The decision to include Pre-Med wasn’t his own, Harry learns. Louis and Harry can both tell something’s wrong every time they bring up classes no matter how hard Liam tries to hide it.

They manage to get his mind off of it by watching Friends, because it’s Liam’s favorite show. Apparently it’s a shame that Harry’s only watched an episode or two. Liam actually seems offended when he finds out, and he starts them on season one shortly after. Harry quickly becomes _obsessed_ and the three of them find themselves quoting the show during random moments of the day and deciding they’re all going to move into the same apartment complex and live across from each other and invent the London Edition of Friends.

Harry sees his psychologist two times a week at first, and then eventually they move it down to just once. He’s making progress, she says, slowly but surely. He vents to her about pretty much everything under the sun and some days he’ll call her – sometimes at odd hours of the night – just ‘cause he needs someone to talk to. She never complains. (Louis _does_ complain, stating: “You can talk to _me_ , Harry!” But Louis understands that sometimes Harry actually _can’t_ talk to him and that it has nothing to do with the boy whatsoever.)

Harry mostly does his school work when he’s not with the boys or Louis’ sisters. He had been trying to get caught up while he was in the hospital and after finishing out the year he kept going so it would be easier for him to graduate early. His old school had set up a program where he can do all his work at the hospital – or Louis’ house now – all he has to do is go in for his A-Level’s when it’s time.

Contrary to how much Louis argues with him, he’s never been serious about school. Sure, he works hard and focuses in school, not because he really saw any future in it, but because he dreamed of getting to college and out of the house as soon as he could. He knows he can slow down now, take his time since there is no rush, but the school work is a nice distraction.

He has no clue what he’s going to do for university or anything, has no plans for the rest of his life. Neither does Louis though. Sometimes it freaks the other boy out, has him pacing back and forth like _oh my god I’m not good at anything, I’m going to be living with my mother for the rest of my life_ , but there are nights where they’re lying in bed and Louis will start talking about how they can go off to University together, eventually, when Harry’s ready, if that’s what he wants.

“We’ll just do General Studies until we figure out what we wanna study, yeah?” he always says.

And he grips onto Harry and the _I can’t do this without you_ goes unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to larcellstylinson on tumblr for beta-ing this for me and also infinite shout-outs to jess. i couldn't have done this without either of you. x


	14. Under His Skin (Overwhelming)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i've already mentioned this, but i'll say it again; i know very little about the schooling system over there, so i kind of just went off other fanfics i've read and my own imagination.

It’s less than a week into January when Harry’s finally ready to take his exams. They’re spread out over a couple days so Louis drives him to the building he’ll be taking them in every morning and then they have lunch together afterwards. When he’s finally done – exhausted, completely drained, but _finished_ – he collapses onto Louis’ bed, wanting nothing more than to complain about how he’s pretty convinced he failed half of them. At the same time all he wants is to sleep and never think of school or test-taking again; he's not even sure he cares about failing anymore.

“You definitely passed your music A-Level,” Louis assures him. He’s seated at his desk with his laptop open in front of him, only half-paying attention to Harry’s slurred ramble.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, probably, but the other ones I’m not so sure about.” He presses his face into the pillow that smells like a weird mix of him and Louis both.

He can feel Louis suddenly crawling up beside him, hooking his arm over Harry’s shoulder and sticking his face close to the younger boy’s in an effort to get his attention. Harry just grunts in acknowledgement.

“I have a surprise for you,” Louis says.

This perks Harry’s interest but he tries not to show it. “Yeah?” he asks into the pillow, his voice muffled.

Louis leans back and Harry tries not to miss the weight of him on his arm. The older boy starts drawing doodles with his finger into Harry’s skin. When he speaks, he sounds nervous, which is odd, because Louis doesn’t get nervous very often. Harry leans up a little, curious.

“I don’t know if you remember, but in about a week, we’ll have known each other for a year.” Harry just rolls his eyes because _of course_ he remembers. Louis doesn’t look at him though, keeps drawing those mindless patterns. “So I was thinking, and I already talked to my mum about it, as a way of honoring that, or whatever, and celebrating you finishing school _two years ahead of time_ ,” Louis rolls his own eyes now, but smiles, “we could go to London for a couple of days. Just chill out, relax.”

Harry is instantly in love with the idea (anything involving Louis and the word ‘relax’ really) and sits up, causing Louis’ hand to fall aside. He nods his head quickly. “Yeah, yeah, Lou. That would be fun. That’d be great.”

Louis’ face breaks into a relieved smile. Harry mutters something about him being a sap so Louis tackles him, causing Harry to fall backwards and nearly topple off the bed.

~*~*~*~*~

They leave within a few days, promising everyone they won’t be gone long – especially Liam who looks disgruntled and is only back home for a short time before having to head back to university.

It’s dreary and cloudy and cold when they get to London and Louis is exhausted so they find a hotel quickly. He pushes Harry inside before him just as it starts pouring down rain. Collapsing in an armchair, he looks up from underneath his too-long eyelashes. “Get us a big bed, yeah?” And then bites his lip like he said something he didn’t mean to.

When he holds out his wallet for Harry to take, their fingers brush and a spark of electricity passes through them.

The guy behind the counter is full-on _glaring_ at Harry and the boy looks down, wondering if he accidentally tracked in rain water or something. They had hurried in just before the storm though, so that wouldn't make any sense.

Harry tells him he needs a room with one king size bed and starts opening up Louis’ wallet – distracted momentarily because _there’s_ Louis’ ID and he looks all happy and smiley.

Then he realizes the guy is talking.

“I think you would like the hotel across the street better, really,” he says, smiling a completely fake smile.

Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. And he’s about to say _no that’s quite alright thanks_ or _it’s fucking pouring down rain; you want me to go back out in that?_ when he notices the man’s eyes shift from Harry to Louis and then back again. And he’s not quite sure he’s reading the signals right, but something tightens in his stomach anyways and his hands clench into fists.

“Is it because we’re two guys asking for one bed, because if it is then that is _so_ _not_ -” he hadn’t realized his voice was getting louder, but then Louis is sliding up next to him and prying his wallet from Harry’s hand.

“That’s fine,” Louis interrupts him, smiling. “We were planning on raiding the mini-fridge and drinking all the mini-liquor and we definitely wouldn’t want to put you out. Have a nice day.”

The man drops his mouth a little, but it’s too late, the pair turns around – with Louis mostly pulling on Harry – and head back towards the exit. They’re going to get soaking wet the second they walk out from underneath the awning, but Harry doesn’t care.

“What an absolute fucking prick.”

Louis surprises him by laughing. There’s something off in his voice, though, when he says, “You get used to it.”

“What do you mean?”

Louis shrugs, but Harry presses the subject until eventually Louis gives in with a sigh. He stares out into the rain, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“It’s just, you know, I’m not the most subtle person in the world,” he smiles a little but his eyes look sad, “and I’m always kind of, you know,” and he grabs Harry’s hand, linking their fingers together as if to show what he means.

Harry’s stomach tightens again.

“Lou, if people ever said shit about you ---”

The older boy just looks up at him with a fond expression. “No worries, love, I can fight my own battles.”

Harry looks down at him.

He’s not really as tiny as Harry’s always saying he is; he’s only about half an inch shorter, and Harry’s just now back to a moderately healthy weight so Louis probably weighs more than him, too. He’s also got more muscle in his arms and obviously he’s older, but. There’s just something about him that screams fragile, and Harry wants to tell him he doesn’t have to fight his own battles, that there shouldn’t _be_ any battles for him _to_ fight, and he also wants to beat the living shit out of anyone who has ever given Louis so much as a dirty look.

The overwhelming protectiveness he feels towards Louis takes him by surprise. It’s something more than just the desire to protect the older boy from any harm or rude remarks thrown his way. He’s hit with the sudden realization that he wants to give Louis _everything_ , everything he could ever imagine or want. Because Louis deserves it, he deserves the best life has to offer.

It takes him a second to catch his breath, like he’s been running a marathon. He’s glad Louis’s distracted because he’s pretty sure his feelings would be written clear as day on his face.

They make a mad dash to the hotel across the street, Louis’ hand still clasped tightly in Harry’s, and just barely miss getting hit by a bus. Harry shakes out his hair a bit and Louis let’s go of his hand and then takes a very distinctive step away from him. Harry assumes it’s just because he’s flinging water everywhere, so he thinks nothing of it, and they walk inside. When they get up to the counter though, Louis asks the woman for a room with two doubles. Harry stares down at him, blinks, and then shakes his head.

“Actually,” he starts, wrapping an arm around Louis and pulling him close to his side, “we want a bedroom with one double or a bigger bed if you have one.”

The woman says nothing, just smiles and takes their money before handing them two keycards.

The silence feels too heavy as they get into the lifts. They’re almost to their floor when Louis turns to him and says, “What was that about?”

“I could ask you the same question.” He stares straight ahead, not meeting Louis’ gaze.

Silence again. The doors open and Louis leads the way down the hall towards their room; the only sound is of their squeaky, wet shoes and faint breathing. As soon as he has the door open, Louis drops his bag next to the king size bed and heads to the bathroom, muttering something about taking a shower.

Harry stands at the door for about 3.5 minutes before letting go of his own bag and making his way over to the bed. He sits down and buries his face in his hands.

_What the actual fuck?_

He and Louis have never fought, not once. There was that time when Louis was being all paranoid and was pretty convinced Harry was some homophobic twat but even then that didn’t count as fighting, it was just a misunderstanding, more them not talking as much as usual than anything else.

This, though, he is pretty sure, is definitely fighting. And over something so stupid and careless. It doesn’t make any sense. Louis always drapes himself over Harry, and anytime Harry does the same it just seems to please him, never has it bothered him before.

The shower water runs for nearly twenty minutes, and even after Harry hears the water shut off, leaving the hotel room in near-silence, Louis stays in the bathroom for another fifteen.

Harry doesn’t move.

When Louis finally emerges from the bathroom, Harry reaches for him. The older boy sighs but comes willingly, standing in front of Harry. Neither of them says anything for a minute, and Harry keeps his eyes on the material of Louis’ shirt, not daring to meet his gaze. His hands are on Louis’ waists, the older boy’s shirt pulled tight against his stomach.

“Harry,” Louis finally says, carding a hand through his curls. His voice is quiet. “You can’t do stuff like that.”

He wants to make a snappy comeback like, _oh touch you? because you’ve never complained before_ but he doesn’t. He just nods and looks up at Louis. _We’re not_ dating, he has to remind himself, _we are_ not dating. _You don’t love him; he doesn’t love you. Love isn’t real. Even if it was, you don’t deserve it. He deserves so much better than you._

Louis’ blue orbs are glossy, and Harry has to fight past the sudden wave of emotion that washes over him.

_He deserves so much better than you._

“It’s just,” he starts, wondering where he wants to go with this, what exactly he wants to say. He looks down. “You’re so beautiful and perfect and I don’t want you to be ashamed of who you are. I don’t want you to feel like it’s something you have to hide.”

When he looks up, Louis is staring down at him. “ _Harry_.”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t _Harry_ me. Just.” And he moves to grip the front of Louis’ t-shirt and pulls him down to attach their lips.

The kiss is like nothing he’s ever experienced before. While the majority of their kisses had a teasing or a kind of reassuring tone to them – and yeah, Harry _is_ trying to assure Louis that everything he said is true – this kiss is something different. It’s more real. It slips its way under Harry’s skin to gnaw at his bones.

Louis sighs and moves forward to straddle him, their chests now pressed together. Harry keeps one hand gripping Louis’ hip, tight enough he might have bruises tomorrow, and the other hand pressing against his back. Louis cradles his face in his hands and even when he slips his tongue past Harry’s lips the kiss stays soft and slow. It’s the longest kissing session they’ve had, but eventually it turns sweet, just the press of lips and nothing more. Harry presses one kiss, two, three before trailing down his jaw towards his neck. Louis mumbles a little bit, leaning his head back, before he pulls on his hair a little. Harry complies, going back up to press their lips together in one last lingering kiss.

“C’mon.” Louis tries to get up then, but Harry wraps an arm around his waist. “We didn’t come here to snog all day.”

“We didn’t? Are you sure?” he asks against the juncture of Louis’ neck and shoulder, his breathing uneven. 

Louis rolls his eyes and pushes off of him.

 

They end up spending the day in bed anyway, ordering room service and watching crappy daytime television. Every once in a while Harry will lean over Louis – sometimes ( _sometimes_ ) completely innocently – and they end up kissing again.

At one point the kissing gets so intense and heavy Harry knows he’s sporting a semi. He isn’t sure Louis is aware of this or not but the smaller boy lifts his hips up a little and presses – accidentally or not – his own growing erection to Harry’s for a split second before pulling back quickly, like he'd been shocked of his actions. Harry still manages to let out what is probably the filthiest moan ever in the history of moans – and he’s watched gay porn a time or two so he’s pretty sure he deserves some kind of reward for that. Louis seems intent on pretending they're both not hard though. Which isn’t a big deal really and eventually they end up pulling apart and going back to arguing about whether _Jersey Shore_ or _Keeping up with the Kardashians_ is more ridiculous.

And if Harry gets a little smug when Louis excuses himself to the bathroom and doesn’t come back for nearly nine and a half minutes, then nobody needs to know.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The next day they leave the hotel room late after ordering room service and start to walk around, just meandering really with no real destination in mind. They’re only a block down from their hotel when they come across a small crowd of people circled around a guy playing his guitar. He’s pretty good, playing a familiar song and singing along to it. He’s got his guitar case opened up and a few people have dropped money into it.

Harry doesn’t really think much of it until Louis grabs onto his sleeve and yanks.

“Go get your guitar, Harry.”

He stares at the older boy, confused for a few seconds, until he understands. He shakes his head quickly, choking out a humorless laugh. “Uh, no. No thank you. I’m fine, thanks.”

“Harry, please?”

He shakes his head again. “No, Lou.”

“ _Harry_.”

“Louis, I’m not going to go get my guitar and play it every time you ask.”

The older boy starts pouting, sticking out his lower lip and looking up at Harry with his big blue eyes.

Harry looks away. “No, no, no. That's cheating.”

Louis intertwines their fingers and pulls on his arm.

“It’s not going to work.”

“Hazza!”

“Nope.”

He moves his head away when Louis tries to get back in his line of vision. But then Louis is there, letting go of his hand and moving them to the back of Harry’s head. His fingers pull at Harry’s curls for a second, forcing Harry to look and meet his eyes. When he does, Louis doesn’t say anything, just leans in close and kisses him.

There’s nothing special about the kiss, really, in comparison to their others. It’s short and simple, Louis playing with his hair a little. But Harry still feels himself loosening up a bit, relaxing into it, and his hands find their way to Louis’ hips, wants to grip them tight and pull him in closer, crush their bodies together and never, ever stop.

Louis pulls back though and Harry whines a little at the loss of contact.

“Harry,” he says, sounding a little out of breath, and then a few seconds later, “You should go get your guitar.”

Harry just nods. “Yeah, sure, okay,” not one hundred percent sure of what he’s agreeing to. He starts to take a step back, ready to head in the direction of their hotel, when he sees the triumphant look on Louis’ face. He frowns. “I hate you. How come my kisses don’t affect you at all?”

Louis’ smile falters a little, till it’s small and almost hidden. He shakes his head and looks away. Harry thinks he mumbles something like, “no clue,” but he isn’t sure. 

 

Harry plays his guitar for nearly thirty minutes and Louis sings along to most of the songs, sitting cross legged on the ground next to Harry’s guitar case. He looks so adorable Harry has a hard time not tackling him and kissing him all over in front of God and everyone. He wants to make Louis crack, wants him to feel weak like Harry does every time they start kissing. He wants to get under his skin.

Louis looks up and winks at him like he knows exactly what Harry’s thinking. Knowing Louis, he probably does.

By the time they’re done they’ve got enough money to pay for an extra night in the hotel along with three condoms and five phone numbers.

~*~*~*~*~

They head to the venue after lunch, seeing as it was kind of the whole point of coming to London in the first place. There’s some small band playing, but they’re from America and neither Harry nor Louis has ever heard of them before. Instead, they just stand outside, staring up at the building.

Louis grabs his hand suddenly and pulls him over to a spot where the queue would usually be.

“This is where we met,” he says, taking Harry’s other hand and swinging them both back and forth between their bodies.

“Actually we met in the bathroom.” Harry glances behind him. “I don’t think we can go in there though.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. I mean _met_ met. Like, ‘hi I’m the stud from the concert and you have curly hair’ met.” His voice goes all deep for a second, like he's trying to sound seductive. His childish grin should throw the whole thing off, but for some reason it doesn't, just makes him that much more irresistible. Harry doesn't know what that says about himself.

“You didn’t say that.”

“I was thinking it.” Louis lifts his eyebrows over and over suggestively.

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “So, you gonna get down on one knee and propose or something?” he teases. “Since you’ve gone all out with the sappiness.”

He should have seen it coming, really, because this is _Louis_ they’re talking about, but somehow he still doesn’t expect it. Because he was joking, really. Obviously so is Louis, but still.

Louis drops down onto one knee suddenly, still holding Harry’s hands, and looks up at him expectantly.

“What are you doing?”

Louis bites his lip and then says, without a hint of humor in his voice, “Will you marry me, Hazza?”

Harry wants to die, kind of, just a little bit.

It takes every fiber of his being to pull Louis up from his half-crouched position.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” He starts leading the boy away from the venue, wrapping his arm loosely around Louis’ shoulder.

“Is that a yes?”

Harry sighs. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you, Lou.”

Louis lets go of his hand to punch the air. He does a little happy dance that just proves Harry’s point: Louis is completely ridiculous.

“And you thought _you_ were the man in the relationship. Obviously it is all me.”

Harry smirks. “Sure, babe, whatever helps you sleep at night. I’m only marrying you because you need someone to cook for you.”

“And now you have to. Every day for the rest of our lives.”

He grins. “I like the sound of that.”

~*~*~*~*~

It’s a spur of the moment thing, he’s pretty sure. If it’s not and Louis has had it planned the entire time, Harry had no clue whatsoever.

They get in a cab, Louis gives the driver way too specific directions, and then they stop in front of a building a few minutes later.

Later on Harry will understand why Louis had picked this of all buildings. It has a kind of personality about it that he can’t quite put his finger on. It looks almost identical to the ones on either side of it, though it seems cleaner, shinier, less fading and cracking in places. And out front, on a sign in big letters, are the words: Sunset Towers.

Not much of a tower, but the front of the building does face the West, so it makes sense. 

Right now, though, he’s just completely lost.

He turns to Louis automatically. The boy is staring up at the building like it’s got a shining halo around it, like it’s the answer to all their prayers.

“Lou.” It’s only one word, but it should be enough to convey his confusion.

Louis just takes his hand and yanks him towards the front doors.

Harry has about 0.7 seconds to look around before they’re running up stairs. Louis is saying something. Harry can’t quite catch on to the words, but Louis is laughing mostly anyways, so he doesn’t think he would be able to understand them if he was trying.

They go up two more flights of stairs and then they’re in a long hallway. There’s a woman at the very end in black slacks and a ruffled silky-looking sleeveless top. She’s got perfect posture and is standing next to one of the doors, chatting on her cell phone. Her blonde hair is done up in a bun and she’s got bangs hanging down in front of her face. A girl comes out of a door closer to them. She’s got long wavy brown hair and bangs similar to the blonde’s. She’s wearing short shorts and four inch heels. Harry can’t stop the onceover he gives her, bluntly checking her out. (He’s a sixteen-year-old boy; he can’t help himself.) She winks when she passes them, and Harry thinks Louis tightens his grip on his hand just a little bit.

He doesn’t know if he’s surprised or not, but Louis approaches the blonde woman. She clicks off her cell phone and smiles like she’s been expecting them.

“Mr. Tomlinson, right?” she asks, her accent distinctly American.

Harry gawks. _Mr._ Tomlinson?

Louis nods eagerly. “That’s me.”

“Let me show you the apartment.”

He looks from her to Louis and back again, but she’s busy unlocking the door to the flat and Louis’s too busy beaming and bouncing on the balls of his feet, so it looks like Harry’s not getting an explanation out of either one of them anytime soon.

He doesn’t, in fact, get an explanation until they’ve already looked through the majority of the flat and are in the kitchen while she’s off “giving them a moment.”

The apartment’s pretty small, but decent. There’s two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small living room that connects with a larger kitchen. The kitchen is the nicest room in the place. Everything recently remodeled, the Realtor had said.

Harry leans against the counter, crosses his arms, and tries to stare Louis down. The older boy is hand-jiving around the kitchen, opening up cupboards and then the fridge, peeking in his head before closing the doors and going back to his dance moves.

“Something you want to tell me?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs, doesn’t stop dancing.

“ _Lou_.”

He sighs and turns to face Harry finally, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t think it would hurt to look, yeah?”

“You’re actually serious then, you want us to get an apartment. In London.”  _Together_.

He shrugs again.

“What – How – Why?”

Louis arches a brow. “You wanna keep living with my mother? Okay then.”

“Well, no, not really. But I figure I’d just go off to college or something . . .” he pauses, notes the look on Louis’ face, “and take you with me, of course,” he finishes.

Louis at least laughs at that and rolls his eyes a bit. “University would be great, yeah. But I just want my own place. Or, y’know, _our_ own place. We can move up here, go to school.”

“How are we going to afford it?”

Louis smiles brightly, like he’s got Harry exactly where he wants him, like he’s thought everything else through, like _I’ve got it from here, babe_. “We can get jobs! There’s a theater down the street hiring.”

Harry nods slowly. “Okay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “This place, though, really?”

He frowns. “It’s not bad! It’s got . . . y’know, a little something to it. I was looking up places –"

“When?”

Louis waves him off. “I was looking up places and the rent here is good. And the kitchen is nice!” Harry has to agree with him there. “Great neighborhood. Close to a little music shop and some other places you might be able to get a job.”

Harry shakes his head and covers his eyes with his hands for a second. “I can’t believe you want to move to London.”

“Is that a yes?”

He waits a minute, doesn’t answer. Finally he sighs and drops his hands. He doesn’t say anything, just nods once. Louis yelps a little and runs at him, and Harry has a split second to prepare himself before Louis is jumping into his arms, wrapping his own around Harry’s neck and his legs around his waist. He’s surprisingly light, but Harry’s still taken aback, so he takes a step back to properly lean against the counter and keep them upright. Louis is whispering _yay yay yay thank you thank you thank you_ into his neck and Harry just laughs and shakes his head and tells him he’s really, truly ridiculous.

When Louis is back on his own two feet Harry has to actually _look down_ at him a little and he realizes again how much taller he’s gotten than the other boy. Louis is beaming up at him, almost like he’s thinking the same thing – and likes it – and Harry wants to bend down and kiss him _in their new almost apartment_ but before he can the real estate woman is walking back in asking if they’ve made their decision.

~*~*~*~*~

Louis gets the job at the theater – of course; _who could say no to that face?_ Harry asks (Louis punches him playfully in response and says _plenty have_ ). It’s mostly just him cleaning up at the end of the day and assisting whoever needs to be assisted, but it’s enough for now, he says; he’ll work his way up.

Harry gets a job at a café a few blocks down from their future flat. It’s quaint and has a little stage for local entertainment. Halfway through the interview Harry’s already talking about the possibility of doing a mike night – because he has a thing for mike nights okay and his boss at the bakery was all _no no no we have a reputation to uphold_ and Harry thought _this is fucking Holmes Chapel, no we don’t_. The boss hires him on the spot and Harry has to tell him that he doesn’t actually live in London _yet_ , just bought a flat with his mate and has to move up there first, and the guy seems honest-to-God disappointed.

The next thing Harry does is call up his therapist and ask for a referral in London. She’s sad to see him go, and he’s sad to go. He liked her a lot. She didn’t mind when he called her at three in the morning for no apparent reason. She assures the next one will be just as good, if not better. He doubts that, but writes down the number for a Cynthia Taylor.

They do all this without consulting or talking to their families once. Louis says they are making a point, that they are old enough to handle things and do it all on their own, but Harry’s pretty sure the older boy is just scared shitless. He’s proven correct when Louis decides to _call_ Jay and tell her the news instead of waiting till they get home the next day.

Harry calls Anne, too, but he doesn’t have much of a choice seeing as she’s a couple towns away with her own mother.

The talks go over surprisingly well, though Jay is a little shocked at the suddenness of it all and Louis almost changes his mind when he’s struck with the fact that she’ll have to hire a babysitter until Lottie’s old enough to help take care of the younger girls.

They also have to fill out paperwork and do all this legal crap because Harry’s only sixteen ( _“almost seventeen,” Louis reminds him_ ) and not technically old enough to be living on his own.

When everything is said and done they collapse in their hotel room, staring up at the ceiling in silence.

“I feel old,” is the first thing Harry says.

“ _You_ feel old?” Louis’ scoff isn’t much of a scoff. He sounds tired and drained and Harry can’t blame him; it’s been a long day.

They’re silent again for a couple minutes, just lying there thinking. Harry says, “We’re all grown up now,” quietly and too late to actually be connected to the conversation.

Louis just murmurs in agreement and rolls over to go to sleep. Harry’s pretty sure he’s asleep at least, but a second later he reaches over and grabs Harry’s hand, pulling until they’re back to chest and Harry’s arm is curled around Louis’ waist.

They’ve never really done _this_ before. They’ve cuddled, but not spooning, never this. Harry eventually relaxes into it though and it doesn’t take him nearly as long as usual to drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after this chapter i'm taking _at least_ a week long break before i start working on the next chapter due to a hand injury making it very difficult for me to type. i also haven't gotten around to reading my comments yet so they've built up quite a bit.


	15. Big Deal (Really, It's Nothing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst with a dash of angst and some angst on the side (don't hate me)

Most of Harry’s belongings are already in boxes at the Tomlinson house, so they spend the majority of their last weekend there packing all of Louis’ stuff and tying up loose ends. Harry makes an appointment with the new therapist, Cynthia, and starts filling out applications for universities. Louis, semi-reluctantly, does the same.

When it’s finally time for them to move, everyone joins them. Literally _everyone_. The whole Tomlinson crew, Harry’s mum and sister, and Liam even tags along complaining the entire time about how far away they’re going to be. Of course, when they do finally get to London, everyone abandons them in lieu of shopping (and Gemma wants to show them around her University) and acting all embarrassingly tourist-like. So Harry and Louis end up moving in ninety nine percent of their crap by themselves.

When they come outside after their second trip in there’s a lad leaning against the outside wall of their apartment building smoking a cigarette. He looks roughly their age and has dark hair and even darker eyes hidden behind thick framed glasses. Louis eyes him as they pass and then elbows Harry in the side.

“Dibs,” he says, just loud enough for Harry to hear. He wiggles his eyebrows.

Harry rolls his eyes and pushes Louis along.

The lad is still there when they’re struggling to move in Louis’ mattress. They’ve just barely made it up the walkway when Louis hollers, “Oi! Wanna give us a hand?”

Looking bored, the dark-haired boy flicks his cigarette. “What’s in it for me?”

Louis looks at him dumbfounded for a second before saying, “A kiss?” He starts wiggling his eyebrows again. Harry has to keep reminding himself that he’s _joking,_ that this is _Louis_ they’re talking about.

Then again, Louis kisses _him_ all the time. Maybe it’s just a thing he does.

He’s not sure if the look on the stranger’s face is of amusement or just pure disbelief.

Louis sighs when he realizes the boy isn’t going to play along. “I have beer?”

The lad nods his head once, takes a puff of his cigarette, and says, “That’ll do.”

Afterwards, when they’ve brought in the majority of Louis and Harry’s ‘heavy’ stuff, Lou hands him a beer. The boy raises it in thanks and then after taking a swig says, “You still owe me that kiss, though.”

~*~*~*~*~

His name is Zayn. He’s (barely) eighteen, a self-proclaimed struggling artist, and lives in the apartment below theirs. He doesn’t go to school - dropped out when he was sixteen because school wasn’t "engaging" enough for him – and now works at a local community center teaching an art class.

He’s kind of got the whole badass thing going for him, laidback and uncaring, but also like he could kick your ass if he felt like it. He peels off his jacket and Harry spots multiple tattoos. He’s intrigued immediately with the air of indifference Zayn gives off, the motorcycle of his he says is parked outside, and his ability to match Louis’ witty banter effortlessly.

Zayn’s ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude and badass façade kind of simmers down a bit, though, when Harry learns the class he teaches is for underprivileged kids of broken families.

And then Liam walks in the flat, huffing a little bit and smiling brightly, with his hands full of bags.

Zayn’s eyes land on the boy, he spits out the beer he was trying to swallow, chokes a little bit, and coughs out “holy shit” after Harry slaps him on the back a couple times.

Liam's attractive, Harry knows. He'd just kind of forgotten about it until he sees the way Zayn stares at Liam like he’s something that just fell out of the sky.

“I bought you stuff!” Liam exclaims at the same time Harry asks Zayn, “You feelin’ alright, mate?” trying to keep the teasing tone out of his voice.

Liam’s eyes are shining brightly, and he’s smiling widely. “I figure, since you won’t have cable or internet for a while, you would need some entertainment, and your DVD collection is limited to Skins and Doctor Who, so . . .” Liam proceeds to dump out about fifteen DVD’s onto the floor of the living room. Louis yelps in excitement and pretty much head dives towards them.

With them distracted, Harry turns back to Zayn. The older boy shakes his head and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m cool.” There’s a few beats of silence. Harry waits. “Who’s your, uhm, friend?” Zayn’s voice is layered in nonchalance enough that Harry’s almost fooled.

“That’s Liam. He and Lou have been friends since they were kids.”

“Is he . . . is he moving in with you guys?”

He shakes his head and chuckles a bit. “Nah, Liam’s too smart for us, goes to school in _Manchester_. Pre-Med and all that.”

Liam looks up quickly from where he’s sitting crisscross on the floor. “Huh?” He stopped straightening his hair months ago, while Harry was still in the hospital; it’s curly now, but in a different way than Harry’s. It’s more manageable looking and lighter in color. He blinks his eyes a couple times, looking like an innocent little puppy. Not helping the attractive, adorable thing one bit. 

Harry chuckles a little. “Nothin’. Just braggin’ about you, s’all.”

Liam goes bright red and ducks his head. He leans in closer to Louis, pointing at the DVD in his hand. Harry can’t tell what it is from this angle, looks like a Disney movie.

“Are they . . . ?” Zayn asks, his voice trailing off. They’re sitting far enough away, Harry doubts the other two can hear them, but Zayn speaks in a whispered tone anyway.

Harry shakes his head quickly, knowing what he was going to ask. “No, they’re not.” He pauses. “Unless they’ve been hiding it from me.” He raises his voice and in a mocking tone asks, “Hey, Lou, you and Li aren’t secretly dating or somethin, are you?”

Liam chokes a little, his face going an even brighter shade of red, and Louis tackles the boy in response to Harry’s question. “Yes we are,” he says, planting a sloppy kiss on Liam’s cheek. “Are you jealous, Hazza?”

“Immensely,” he responds dryly. (He ignores the slight tightening in his stomach; he’s just hungry, that’s all.) “I think Zayn here is, too.” He just barely gets the words out before the older boy is slugging him in the shoulder and giving him a dark look to match his dark eyes.

Louis perks up, reminding Harry of the dog in the film _Up_ whenever he saw a squirrel. “Zayn-ey. I have enough love to share,” and he starts to crawl across the room towards them. Literally _crawls_. 

“Wasn’t exactly what I meant,” Harry tries to say, but he’s laughing too hard at the terrified look on Zayn’s face and the predatory one on Louis’. He just has a split second to see the expression on Liam’s face – almost like he’s disappointed – before it’s gone.

Making a spur of the moment decision, and pretending like he’s doing it just to save Zayn, Harry grabs Louis – who sputters out in surprise and ‘whelps’ a little – and pulls the blue eyed boy into his own lap.

“Sorry, Zayn,” he buries his face in Louis’ neck, “he’s mine. You can’t have him.”

Liam clears his throat. “You know, _I’ve_ known him the longest, so.”

Louis lets out a childlike giggle. Harry wants to bottle the sound and keep it forever; pretty sure it could cure cancer. Louis pushes away from him and collapses onto his back on the ground, spread out like a starfish.

“There’s enough of me to go around!” he cries.

Liam pokes him in the side. “That’s for sure.”

“Hey!” Louis pouts and wraps his arms around his stomach.

Harry frowns, his insides freezing up instinctively. “Don’t listen to him. You’re perfect.”

“Awe, look at your boyfriend, getting all sappy.” While Harry’s pretty sure it’s meant to come out teasing, Liam sounds almost annoyed. 

Harry sticks his tongue out at him anyway, as does Louis. He meets Harry's gaze, though, and squeezes his hand, like he knows what Harry's thinking about. 

Zayn just sits back, watching them all, and laughs before saying. “So I know this pub I frequent, if you guys are interested. It’s a small little place, not too crowded or anything.”

Louis jumps up. “You had me at pub.” He frowns a little. “Harry and Liam aren’t eighteen yet . . .”

Zayn waves it off with a hand, like it doesn’t matter. “I know the lad who owns it. They can get in.”

“Awesome. Liam won’t drink, but we can drag him along anyways.” Louis grins wickedly and makes grabby hands at Liam who just frowns.

“You don’t drink?” Zayn asks. Liam shakes his head and starts to open his mouth, but then shuts it and shakes his head again and shrugs a little. “Of _course_ you don’t,” Zayn continues, sounding almost amused.

~*~*~*~*~ 

They have to finish unloading the truck and then everyone decides to stay for a dinner of take-out; Chinese and pizza. They order way too much food, and Harry tells Louis they’re going to be living off of leftovers for the next week and a half.

They’re all crowded in the living room, sitting on the floor because Louis and Harry don’t have much in the way of furniture yet. There’s a food fight _of course_ because food and Louis and his family in the vicinity means a fight is inevitable. Harry actually joins in on this one and manages to get pizza sauce on Louis’ pants. He catches Liam pouring parmesan cheese over Zayn’s hair and the darker haired boy starts chasing him around the flat. Zayn doesn’t really look mad though, which is surprising considering Louis had tried to _touch_ his quiff and Zayn had all but bitten his fingers off.

Eventually Harry’s mum, Gemma and Louis’ family head out the door after about an hour of _goodbye_ ’s and _be good_ ’s and _take care of yourself_ ’s and _I’ll miss you_ ’s. It’s all ridiculous, really, and by the end of it, Harry’s practically pushing them out the door and slamming it shut behind them.

Finally he kind of just collapses on the floor. It’s nearly ten o’clock and he’s exhausted but Louis and Zayn seem pretty intent on going out still. So they all pile into Liam’s car because he’s automatically the designated driver seeing as Zayn and Louis plan on getting shitfaced and Harry can’t even drive yet.

The pub is very low key, located on the first floor of a small building. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed its existence just walking past, but he can hear the quiet pounding of a bass coming from inside. The guy at the door lets them in right away, nodding at Zayn like they’re old friends. There’s a stage (some band just finishing up their set) and some tables, but Zayn leads them straight to the bar where a blond lad is throwing bottles around and mixing a drink for a brunette with freakishly long hair.

Harry does a double take when they get closer because _no way_ is the blond old enough to even be _in_ the pub, let alone be working as the bartender. He then does another double take because the brunette sitting there is the same one he saw in their apartment complex the day they met the Realtor.

Zayn slides into a seat like he lives there. “This is Niall and Cher. She lives in our building, too, same floor as you.”

Cher turns a little and waves with her fingers, smiling at them with brilliantly white teeth. “Hi.” Her lips are pursed and she’s staring at Harry like she remembers him checking her out. He feels embarrassed and uncomfortable all of a sudden.

Zayn glances back, between Cher and Niall, and the rest of the group, and says something that sounds vaguely like “oh right” before “Cher, Niall, this is Harry, Louis and Liam.”

Niall salutes them with two fingers. “Friends of Zayn?” Harry doesn’t really know how to answer that, but Niall doesn’t wait for an answer. “What’ya want? First one’s on the house.” He’s got a distinct Irish accent and Harry can see Louis’ eyes light up, like Niall is a new toy for him to play with.

Louis and Zayn order themselves a drink, and Liam takes a seat at the bar, asking, “How do you – I mean not to be rude, but – you can’t be old enough to work here.”

Niall shrugs, smiling in an easy, carefree way. It somehow manages to lighten the mood a little bit and Harry finds himself relaxing. “Own it . . . kind of. Employees don’t seem to mind since I’m the one payin’ them. Everyone just kind of . . .” He waves a hand around, gesticulating vaguely. "Looks the other way," he finishes. 

Zayn takes a swig of his concoction. “Niall lives upstairs. His parents gave him the pub for his sixteenth birthday. They own like . . . fifty across the U.K. and Ireland,” he explains. “Technically Mickey owns it, but . . .” his voice trails off, and he turns back to Niall. “You work tomorrow night?”

The blond is _still_ smiling, talking to Liam and Cher about something or another, but he pauses to glance over at Zayn. He shrugs again. “Don’t have to.”

“Thinking about going to the club that just opened up. Think you could get us in?”

Niall’s grin widens, and there’s a glint in his eye. “Sure, sure. I’ll see what I can do.” He holds up a finger. “Hold on a mo.” He walks down the length of the bar, facing a crowd of young people sitting around a table. “Oi! Tony! Get your arse up there already.”

The guy – Tony, he guesses – looks to be in the middle of a conversation with some girl who’s draped over his lap. He waves a hand at Niall without pausing to look away from her.

“Fine. I’ll get Zayn to sing in your spot instead.”

That seems to have Tony’s attention, because he’s up in a flash, muttering something under his breath and heading for the stage.

Zayn buries his face in his arms and shakes his head. Cher laughs hysterically and massages the back of his neck.

“You sing?” Liam asks, his voice unnaturally quiet.

Zayn shakes his head, but Niall rolls his eyes and says, “Yes he does,” at the same time Cher says, “You should hear him.”

Louis perks up, seeming to catch on with what they’re talking about. “Wait. You do karaoke nights here?”

Niall shrugs. “Sometimes. Mostly get cheap entertainment or whoever wants to come and isn’t too awful I get a migraine after five minutes.” He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath.

Louis turns his eyes to Harry, who shakes his head immediately. “No, don’t even think about it,” he says. “I know what you’re thinking, Lou, and it is _not_ happening.”

The older boy gets up, leaving his empty glass on the counter for Niall to refill. “ _Harry_! It would be so much fun.”

“Why do you have this addiction with putting me in uncomfortable positions?”

Louis chuckles dirtily and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Pervert. You know what I mean.”

"It's good for you," he says quietly and then he’s jumping up and down, one of his hands clasped tightly around Harry’s wrist. “Please, please, _please_. We could become like a duo. It would be _awesome_.” There are stars in his eyes, and Harry’s reminded of when Louis asked him to move to London, seemed like he had the rest of their lives planned out. He wonders if this is what Louis had in mind for them all along.

“What’s he going on about?” Zayn asks, looking between the two of them, his brows furrowed.

“Harry plays guitar,” Liam explains. “And Louis sings. He’s always wanted to make a living out of it.”

Louis’s taken a seat in Harry’s lap, and Cher’s looking at him adoringly, and he feels extremely uncomfortable with everyone’s focus on him. He shoves Louis away from him carefully. “And he’s always making me play for him.” He sticks out his tongue at Louis to counteract his annoyed tone.

“That only happened like, once, okay.” Louis pouts and crosses his arms over his chest.

Harry laughs once. "Try seventeen." 

“Actually,” Liam interjects; surprising Harry enough he swirls around on his bar stool to look at him. Liam’s eyes are staring up at the ceiling, a calculating look on his face. “It happened three times . . . right?” Harry’s confusion must be shown on his face, because he continues. “Well, once at the music store, and then in Doncaster, and once in London . . .” His voice trails off.

Harry is a half-a-second away from asking Liam if he’s _stalking_ them or something, but then it dawns on him why he would know, and he whirls around slowly to look at Louis. “Oh, Louis told you?” It isn’t a big deal or anything, he tells himself; he just hadn’t realized it was something Louis talked about.

Louis shrugs like he doesn’t think it’s a big deal either. “I tell Liam everything.”

Harry starts to nod like _yeah okay_ , looking back towards Niall to ask him a question, but then he catches on to what Louis’s saying. “Wait . . . _everything_?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant for Louis’ ears and Louis’ ears alone. He thinks of all the times he and Louis have kissed, made out . . . cuddled. The cuddling especially seems like a bigger deal than the rest of it.

The older boy doesn’t answer for a moment, just stares at Harry. He nods his head slowly. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Harry stands up suddenly, nearly knocking over his bar stool. “I have to . . . I’ll be . . .” He stares at Louis, shakes his head, and heads towards the back where he’s sure the toilets are.

If he had stayed a little longer he would have heard Louis nearly stomp his foot like he was on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum. He would have seen the way Louis stared at Liam and grumbled, “ _Liiiii-um_!” before following Harry. He would have seen the way Liam’s face crumbled, the way he kind of sunk in on himself.

Niall pauses in the process of cleaning off the bar and glances between Liam and Louis’ retreating figure. “Did I miss something? What the hell was that all about?”

 

Louis is almost right behind Harry when they walk away, so Harry's only just taken a space at the urinal when the door opens.

“Why are you upset?” Louis asks. It’s one of the few times he’s ever been serious with Harry – and this time it’s not about his sexuality or Pete or the mess Harry’s in, it’s about _them_ so automatically Harry’s just full of nerves and he’s trying to go to the bathroom, so _really,_ he wants to ask, _do we have to do this_ now _?_

He shrugs his shoulders and just prays to God that Louis stays on the other side of the bathroom.

“Whoever said I was upset?”

Louis narrows his eyes like that’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. He knows Harry too well; it would be hilarious and kind of endearing if it wasn’t so sad.

“Really, it’s nothing,” Harry says, finishing and zipping his pants back up. He turns around and heads to the sinks. “You just told Liam we’ve kissed, no big deal, alright?”

“Obviously it is a big deal to you.” Louis leans up against the sink to Harry’s right, resting his hip up against it. It reminds Harry vividly of the time at The Script concert when they had met. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to look at Louis like he’s an idiot. “Who would I have told?”

Louis shrugs like _yeah,_ alright. “It’s not a big deal,” Louis continues, speaking slowly, repeating Harry’s earlier words.

Harry nods. “Yeah, I know. I think we’ve established that. I’m not upset, really. Honestly. You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No, I mean . . . what we do; it’s not a big deal.” His voice is slow and quiet, like he doesn’t really know how to word what he’s saying.

Harry freezes with his hands under the faucet and doesn’t meet the gaze he knows is trained on him, waiting for some kind of reaction. He just nods because he had suspected from the beginning that that was how it was. Louis makes out with people for no apparent reason other than the fact that they’re good kissers and he feels like it. That’s all. It means nothing. He’s known that from the start.

_So why does hearing it out loud, having it confirmed, hurt so badly?_

“I know. I just didn’t think it was something you wanted broadcasted.” He shrugs and dries off his hands.

“I tell Liam everything,” Louis defends. “He’s my best friend.”

And if that isn’t a stab in the chest, Harry doesn’t know what is. They both know, without a shadow of a doubt, wouldn’t even have to question it, that Louis is Harry’s best friend. And here Louis is, saying it’s not mutual.

“He thought we were like, secretly dating or something.” Louis half-laughs like the idea of them dating – secretly or not – is the most ridiculous thing on the planet. Harry can just imagine the conversation; _me and Harry dating? Ha ha ha, yeah right. Have you seen Harry? He’s not attractive at all and he’s so pathetically damaged._ Blah blah blah. He needs Louis to shut up like ten minutes ago. 

“Right, well.” He brushes past the other boy. “I’m going to go return to the group, if you don’t mind.” He leaves the bathroom before Louis can say anything else.

When he slides onto one of the bar stools, Zayn looks him up and down quickly. He must read something in his posture or on his face, because he smirks a little and says, “Let me get you a beer.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, no beer. Don’t like beer." He huffs out a breath. "Get me something stronger.”

And even though he hadn’t wanted to come out to the pub in the first place – still regrets it, really – he’s the one who goes home shitfaced that night. He hangs off of Zayn, who is drunk and giggling beside him, and really, through no fault of his own, Harry keeps shooting Louis these looks that say _look, I’ve got a best friend now, too. I don’t need you._

 


	16. Anything At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before any more of you get your panties in a twist, no there is no harry/cher in this.

When Harry wakes up he’s got a hangover from hell – of course, he’s only been hungover like once before so any hangover he has would probably be from hell or some equally painful place.

They haven’t set up their bedframes yet so his mattress is on the floor. Louis is sitting cross-legged beside him, an amused look on his face. Its part _I told you so_ (even though he’s pretty sure Louis didn’t tell him so) and part _everything’s fine, let’s pretend nothing happened_. But even though the majority of the night’s events are a blur, Harry remembers the Bathroom Scene vividly and he’s not sure he can let that go so easily no matter how badly he wants to. 

Really he wants nothing more than to roll over, swallow some painkillers, and fall back asleep; possibly pretend like Louis and the rest of the world don’t exist – at least for a couple hours . . . or days. But then Louis is nudging him in the shoulder and holding out a steaming cup of something and the prospect of tea or coffee is too good to pass up.

“I made you some tea,” Louis says. Harry nods in gratitude and takes the cup, sipping at it slowly. It’s perfect; the same tea Louis makes him nearly every night before Harry goes to bed. “And here’s something for that headache I know you’re sporting.” He holds out two pills and Harry swallows them down with the tea.

He figures that’s it; Louis’s done his part and now he’s going to leave. But the older boy stays seated on the other side of the mattress. He’s got a curious look on his face, almost staring Harry down like he’s waiting for the younger boy to say something. Harry rolls over, buries his face under his pillow a little bit, careful not to spill the tea.

“How come you’re not hungover?” he asks after a few more minutes of silence. He has a vague memory of asking this question before, the last time he was hung over, but it hurts to think, so he just sits up a little and sips at his tea some more.

Louis laughs, but not in amusement or even humor, almost like he’s frustrated or upset. “Well, Li and I were too busy making sure you and Zayn didn’t drink yourselves to death. Don’t really know Zayn that well, honestly, but I would’ve felt bad if he passed out and got taken advantage of. He’s too pretty to leave fending for himself, that’s for sure.”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“He’s asleep on the floor in the living room. Think Li’s trying to wake him up.”

Harry yawns. “What time is it?”

“Almost half nine.”

He blinks. “And _what_ did’ya wake me up for?”

“You can’t sleep the whole day away, Hazza.” Louis laughs a little. He reaches out, almost like he’s going to ruffle Harry’s curls, but pulls back at the last second. He clears his throat. When he speaks again, the humor in his voice is gone. “We’ve got things to do.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go out drinking in the first place,” Harry points out.

“Yeah, well, I can hold my liquor better than you can.”

Harry wants to argue, but his head is pounding in agreement way too much.

“I’m going to go buy breakfast,” Louis continues. Harry groans at the idea of food, but Louis ignores him. “Something extremely greasy and possibly from McDonalds. You’re going to go take a shower and get dressed.”

“Can’t boss me around.” He’s about 0.5 seconds away from sticking his tongue out at the older boy.

“Actually, yes, yes I can. Somebody’s got to.” And then the bed shifts and he knows Louis’s getting up. When he speaks again, his voice comes from the open door. “So get your arse outta bed."  

Harry does at least manage to throw his pillow at him, but by that time Louis’s gone, his cackling laugh coming from down the hallway.

~*~*~*~*~

“I like this one. What do you think, Harry?”

Harry looks up from where he’s seated beside Zayn; they’re in two identical easy chairs, have the footrests pulled up so they can lean back, and had been talking about tattoos. (When he asked Zayn how many he had, the boy just winked and made it clear that there were more than just the ones on his arms.) Harry had been in the middle of telling Zayn about how he wanted a tattoo, just had to narrow his choices down, when Louis’ voice brought him out of their conversation.

Louis and Liam are nearby, sitting on a couch that’s overstuffed and has three large pillows. They’ve been to three furniture stores already and Louis still hasn’t found _exactly_ what he’s looking for – whatever that is. Their mums gave them some money to buy some furniture, but Louis keeps changing his mind about what they should get and what it should look like. Harry, really, couldn’t care less.

Well, he could care less – he doesn’t want their apartment looking like a dump – but right now he doesn’t want to be bothered. Louis’s not acting like their conversation yesterday didn’t happen; he’s acting like it did but that there was nothing wrong with it. He’s acting like he didn’t just bluntly say that Liam’s his best friend and Harry’s not and that their kissing means absolutely nothing to him and that basically, he doesn’t want to date him and the idea of dating him is just plain ridiculous.

Really Harry’s just overreacting. He puts preteens to shame.

They’re at a thrift store and of course this would be the place Louis finds the couch he actually wants.

Harry shrugs and looks away, turning back to Zayn. “I got this job working at this café down the street from the apartments. Pay isn’t that great, but it’s a start, y’know? Gonna put together a mike night.”

“The one with the windows all across the front?” Zayn asks. Harry nods. “They have the _best_ coffee there. Food’s not so good.”

Harry keeps nodding. “Well, I like to –” 

“ _Harry_.” It’s Louis again. Harry turns back around, raising his eyebrows in question. “Come feel it. You’ll sink right in.”

Harry sighs. “Then get it.” He stands up though and makes his way over to the pair. He has no choice but to sit next to Louis so he does, and Louis’s right, he does just kind of sink into the couch. “I like it.”

“Me too.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“What if it doesn’t match the other stuff we own?”

Harry stares at him like he’s ridiculous. “It’s _black_ , Lou. Your entertainment stand is black. There’s no problem. Everything goes with black.”

Louis huffs. “Fine.”

“If you don’t want it, then don’t get it.”

“I do want it.”

“Then we’ll buy it.” He looks down at the couch where the price is listed. “It’s cheap enough we’ll have enough left over to save for rent.”

“Or,” Louis drawls out the word like there’s a dozen R’s in it instead of one. “We could use the money to pay for a couple months of Netflix.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Harry sighs and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Do whatever you want.”

Louis frowns a little, his voice lower when he says, “Are you -”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he interrupts. _Or_ ever, he adds mentally. He’s overly aware of both Zayn and Liam’s eyes on him.

“Yeah, but -”

“But _nothing_ , Lou. Obviously we feel differently." He bites his lip and shrugs. “It’s no big deal,” he repeats the words from last night, hoping the more he says him, the more true they'll feel.

Louis’ frown deepens and he doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds. “It’s just a crush,” he finally says. His voice is quiet, barely audible. “You’ll get over it.”

Something inside Harry snaps. He feels like he's been slapped across the face or doused in ice cold water. His hands tighten into fists and he has the sudden urge to get up and walk away, or maybe throw something at a wall . . . or at Louis.

He closes his eyes, almost laughs a little, and shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, Louis jerks back a little bit. “A _crush_?” He wonders if this is something Louis’s talked about with Liam, if they sat around on his bed and laughed about _little Harry and his stupid little crush_. His chest tightens. “A crush,” he says again, rolling his eyes a little and staring at the ceiling. “Louis, I can’t even _look_ at you without feeling like my heart is going to burst out of my chest.” He looks back at the boy, whose expression is completely blank. “And you call that _a crush_?" He pauses, tries to unscramble the look on Louis' face, but there's nothing there. "Does it feel like that for you?” he asks quietly. “Do you even feel _anything_  for me . . . at all?”

Louis still doesn’t say anything.

Guess that answers _that_ then. Harry shakes his head a little. “Right, well.” His voice returns to a normal volume. “Buy the couch. I like it.” He stands up again and walks back to where Zayn’s watching with curious eyes. “So anyways,” Harry continues where they left off like nothing just happened, like he’s not about to start crying any second. 

He can feel Louis’ eyes on the back of his head, but he doesn’t turn around, just listens to Zayn talk. He’s barely aware of Liam saying, “He’s right, Lou, you should probably save your money.”

Louis keeps silent.

~*~*~*~*~

They’re sitting on their new-old couch, eating pizza and watching Friends on Louis’ TV, when Zayn pokes Harry in the side.

“Still want to go to that club tonight?” he asks quietly. It’s obvious his words are meant for Harry and Harry alone, but Louis perks up. There’s something unreadable on his face.

“Think me and Li might tag along, too, yeah?” he says. His voice doesn’t give anything away.

Liam frowns.

Zayn nods like _yeah, totally, why wouldn’t you?_ but gives Harry this _look_ and it makes guilt eat away at his insides. He really didn’t want it to be like this, Louis and Liam on one side, and Harry and his new friendship with Zayn on the other.

It’s just that Harry’s been getting along with Zayn really well; he seems to silently understand what’s going on with Harry and Louis even though neither of them has mentioned their earlier conversation.

Harry just wishes he could put his feelings aside, because he really _shouldn't_ care that whatever was going on between him and Louis is nothing. He'd already known that was gonna happen. He’s more pissed off about the fact that Louis’s treating him like some child with a stupid crush that’s just going to _go away_. Like Louis doesn't understand that Harry's already head over heels. And now that Harry actually thinks about it should be _pretty damn obvious_. He can't believe he didn't realize it sooner himself. 

Really, though, it’s not a big deal. And he doesn’t want their new friend having to pick sides (though he does feel kind of smug that Zayn has obviously chosen his.)

 

Harry almost thinks about not going to the club. Even as he’s standing in front of the mirror, making sure he looks presentable, there’s still this voice in the back of his head that’s saying _maybe you should stay home tonight_. He thinks it’s probably Liam’s voice, reminding him he’s got work the next day, but it may also be part he just doesn’t want to be around Louis right now.

Zayn hollers for him to hurry his arse up though and then ruffles his hair like they’ve been best friends forever, so Harry tags along. He sits in the back of the car next to Zayn while the darker-haired boy gives Liam instructions on how to get there (and not so subtly checks him out; Harry figures that’s a conversation for another time, though.)

Niall meets them outside of the club.

Harry didn’t have much time to spend with Niall the night before – he was too busy getting drunk – so all he really knows about the Irish lad is from what Zayn’s told him. He knows that apparently Niall is the ‘ _coolest, most laidback guy you’ll ever meet_ ’ and that him and Zayn went to school together.

He’s also insanely rich, but it’s obvious even to Harry that Niall’s not the kind of guy to flaunt his wealth. Harry sure wouldn’t have known he was loaded just by looking at him. Niall gives off this vibe, extremely ‘go with the flow,' even now, standing outside _one of the hottest club openings in London_. He’s wearing jeans, a polo, and has got his hat on backwards. He’s talking to two tall girls that could be models with the way they look and are dressed. They’re bluntly flirting with him (one of them even runs a hand down his arm, squeezing), but when Niall sees the four of them approaching, he waves goodbye like he has no interest whatsoever.

“Playing hard to get again, I see,” Zayn says, immediately giving the lad a hug.

Niall leans his head back a little and laughs, showing off his pearly white teeth. “Nah, mate. Tonight’s about the boys, right, yeah?” He looks them each in the eye and nods once. “Plus the blonde’s got a boyfriend who’s like twice my size, so.”

Zayn ruffles his hair. “Everyone’s twice your size, Nialler.”

Niall just chuckles again, mutters something about Zayn being an asshole, and ducks his head before leading the way inside, not even bothering to get in line. The bouncer just waves them pass and Harry wonders if anyone ever says no to Niall.

The blond shows them the way to a booth in the back and almost immediately they’re surrounded by people – some their age, some older. Cher’s there, curled up next to Niall and laughing at some story he starts telling. A couple girls, including the ones from outside, join them, as well as some boys. The girls introduce themselves, shaking Harry’s hand and blinking their brilliant, large eyes. Someone comes back to the table with shots and before he knows it, thirty minutes have passed, and he’s pleasantly buzzed. Louis and Liam are on the dance floor with each other, Niall’s off somewhere with Cher, so it’s mostly just him and Zayn, sitting so close their arms are touching and Zayn’s legs are practically in Harry’s lap.

Zayn’s eyes are out in the crowd and he nudges Harry a little too hard. “Are you sure they’re not secretly together? Maybe that's why . . .”

Harry follows his line of vision, his eyes landing on Louis. The older boy’s got his head thrown back, sweat trailing down his neck. He’s got a hand on Liam’s shoulder and they’re both laughing, barely even dancing anymore. Liam’s got obvious heart eyes.

Harry shakes his head and takes another shot. “I’m sure.” He doesn’t mention the fact that he’s pretty convinced Liam’s in love with Louis, though.

“And you two aren’t together.” He motions between Louis and Harry. It’s more of a statement than a question, but Harry shakes his head anyways. Zayn looks amused. “I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”

He shrugs then chuckles a little. “No.”

There are a couple minutes of silence – well, as much silence as you can get in a club with pounding music – before Zayn continues. “He’s definitely gay, though, right?”

Harry really doesn’t know if he should answer, it’s not his place, but he sighs and nods his head anyway.

“Are you?”

He finally turns to look at the other boy. Zayn’s got curious eyes, but it’s an innocent question. Harry doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to. “Does it matter?”

Zayn shakes his head. “No. Just wonderin, s’all.”

“But you . . . you are, too? I mean . . . Liam,” his voice trails off a little.

Zayn laughs – half like he’s uncomfortable at being caught and half out of amusement. “Nobody’s that straight, mate,” and claps him on the back.

Harry doesn’t really know what he means, but nods like _yeah, alright_.

“This is going to become a weekly thing, isn’t it?” he asks, looking around at the club.

Zayn shrugs. “Maybe. Niall’s always getting invites to parties and club openings. We’re young though; this is how we’re supposed to be spending our weekends, isn’t it?”

Harry thinks back to how much everything’s changed. His weekends used to be spent hiding from his step-father at one point and then at the hospital for a while. He used to hide in the bathroom, cutting and throwing up, and now he’s here with _friends,_ actual other people, hanging out and drinking. If someone had told him a year ago this is what would happen with his life, he wouldn’t have believed them.

“You’re pretty young still.” Zayn picks up the conversation like they hadn’t just been quiet for five minutes. “Guess you didn’t do this a lot back where you come from.”

Harry laughs loudly and shakes his head. “Uh, no. Don’t even think there’s a club where I come from. Definitely wouldn’t have been able to get in if there was.”

He feels Zayn’s eyes on him and he turns, watching the boy look him up and down. “I don’t know. I’m sure you could charm your way inside.”

Harry chuckles. “Are you hitting on me, Zayn?” His voice slurs a little bit.

Zayn smiles and winks. “Maybe just a little,” he teases.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Liam.”

“More worried ‘bout Lou, honestly.” His eyes drift off to the dance floor again. He takes another shot. “He’d probably skin me alive."

Harry’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Did he miss the entire part where he and Louis  _aren't_ dating? “It’s not like that.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to answer, because all of a sudden - ( _speak of the devil and the devil shall appear_ ) - Louis is tackling him, squeezing himself onto Harry’s lap in the space between his body and the table. He reeks of alcohol and his eyes are too big. Zayn just gives Harry this look like he’s trying to convey something important that Harry’s not catching on to.

“I was having separation anxiety,” Louis says, cuddling into Harry’s neck. “You two looked awfully cozy over here and I got jealous.” He presses his lips to Harry’s in a quick, sloppy kiss.

“You’re drunk,” Harry deadpans. He’s torn between the urge to push Louis away and pull him closer, the alcohol making it difficult for him to make up his mind about what he wants.

Louis sits up straight, smiling. “That I am!”

Harry shuffles them around a little bit until Louis’s beside him instead of straddling him.

Cher returns to the table with a drunk-looking Niall. The blond falls into the booth and crawls over to Zayn, collapsing with his head in the boy’s lap.

“Zayn-ey. I think I drank too much.”

“Did’ya now?” Zayn laughs and runs his fingers through Niall’s hair.

Cher nods. “We were dancing and he practically collapsed on top of me. I had to drag him over here.”

“You usually out-drink us all.”

Niall shrugs. “The bartender’s a floozy. She put something in my drink. Wants in my pants.” And then he starts giggling like a three-year-old.

Zayn starts massaging Niall’s head. “The boy can drink us under the table when it comes to beer,” he tells Harry, “but when it comes to hard liquor, the lad’s a lightweight I swear.”

Harry laughs, watching Niall try to sit up and argue that he’s _definitely not a lightweight_ while Cher scoots in next to him. “Hi Harry,” she says. “You wanna dance?”

He’s going to say no, really, but for some reason he ends up nodding his head, overly aware of Louis pressed to his other side. “Sure. Why not?”

She smiles like he just made her day and takes his hand, leading him off to the dance floor.

~*~*~*~*~

He’s not as hung over when he wakes up the next morning. He’s got a small headache, but that’s it. Zayn’s the one next to him instead of Louis and the sight of the darker skinned boy confuses Harry a little bit. Zayn’s leaning against the wall, checking his phone, but puts it away when he sees Harry stir. He can’t help but notice that, unlike Louis, Zayn doesn’t have tea or painkillers.

“Had an interesting conversation with Louis last night after you left to dance with Cher,” he says.

Harry raises his eyebrows in interest. He only has vague memories of being on the dance floor with the brunette. She tried to kiss him; Harry thinks he might have let her.

“Yeah, apparently I’m not allowed to steal you from him, and if I try to . . . well he got pretty creative, let's just leave it at that.” Zayn laughs like it’s all a big joke to him. “He was pretty smashed. Thinks we’re secretly dating or fucking or something.”

Harry just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “We are secretly dating, Zayn,” he reaches out for Zayn’s leg blindly, patting his thigh, “you just don’t know it yet.”

Zayn laughs and shoves him a little bit. “Alright babe,” he says. “Just don’t tell anyone. Don’t wanna make your boyfriend jealous.”

Smirking, Harry finally looks back at him. “Isn’t that the point?” he jokes.

Shrugging, Zayn stands up. “Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way. I don’t even remember how I got home. I gotta go, though, so I’ll see ya later.” And then as he’s leaving, he says, extra loudly, “Bye _boyfriend_.” And Harry cracks up. 

He buries his face in his pillow, trying to drown out the noise of Liam hollering at Louis that _I told you not to go out; now you have to go to work with a hangover and it’s your_ first day. Harry groans and wonders if it’s too soon to call in sick. 

~*~*~*~*~

Zayn comes over after work that day, loudly proclaiming that he missed his boyfriend even though Harry’s the only one home. Harry chuckles anyways and they hang out in the living room. At one point Zayn disappears to go to the bathroom and comes back seven minutes later with Harry’s acoustic guitar.

“So you really do play?”

Harry looks up from where he had been browsing through university brochures and nods his head.

“I saw your bass, but it looked pretty, and I didn’t want to get in trouble for touching it.”

Harry laughs. “Smart thinking.” When Zayn starts strumming the guitar, he asks, “You play, too?”

Zayn shrugs. “A little.”

He hums a little as he plays (going to show he can play more than just _a little_ ) and Harry goes back to narrowing down his choices for University.

“Hey,” Zayn says suddenly. “You don’t work tomorrow right?” After getting a head nod in confirmation, he continues, “We should go out again tonight, just the two of us.”

Leaning his head back against the armrest, Harry groans loudly. “Oh my God, you’re actually _insane_.” He laughs. “I swear you’re going to corrupt me or something." He goes back to flipping through one of the brochures and absentmindedly says, "Bad influence is what you are. Should dedicate that Pink song to you.”

Zayn stops strumming. “Pink, really?”

Nodding, Harry says, “Yeah, you know the one.” Zayn blinks, looking lost. Harry sighs. “ _Lordy lordy lordy, I can’t help it, I like to party._ ”

The older boy shakes his head. “Nope, never heard of it.”

“What, do you live under a rock?” He starts singing again, “ _Alright sir, sure I’ll have another one it’s early. Three olives, shake it up, I like it dirty. Tequila for_ _Zayn, it makes him flirty._ ” He winks.

Zayn laughs. “Tequila _does_ make me flirty.”

Harry leans his head back and chortles.

 

When Louis walks into the flat five minutes later, Harry has his laptop open playing the song and he and Zayn are singing along, changing the lyrics randomly and busting out laughing every few seconds even though they’re not making much sense whatsoever.

Louis stares at them until the song is over, shaking his head, and Harry almost falls off the couch trying to turn off iTunes while the beginning notes of ‘Family Portrait’ start playing.

From the floor, Zayn takes the laptop and starts scrolling through music. “Holy shit,” he says suddenly, and Harry breaks his gaze away from Louis – didn’t even realize they’d been staring at each other – and looks down at the boy. “Thirty thousand songs, are you serious? Do you even listen to all of this?”

Harry shrugs. “I like a lot of different music.”

“ _You’re_ insane.” Zayn shakes his head. “Is that the time? I’ve gotta go.”

Harry’s already used to Zayn’s odd work hours, causing him to leave and show up randomly, so he just nods, unperplexed. “Instead of going out, we should just watch a movie later or something.”

Zayn shrugs as he leaves. “Ya alright. Later.” Once he’s at the door, behind Louis’ back, he meets Harry’s eyes and whispers, “ _boyfriend_.”

Harry chuckles again and looks away.

Once he’s gone, Louis walks over to the couch, stepping over Harry’s laptop. Harry pulls his knees up to his chest to leave room for Louis at the other end.

“Where’s Liam?” he asks.

Harry shrugs. “Think he went out with Niall or something.”

Louis just nods and it’s quiet for a couple minutes. Then he says, “You sang for him.”

Harry blinks in confusion. “What?”

“You sang. In front of Zayn.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. No big deal.” He's been repeating those three words a lot lately. Should be his new life motto. 

“I thought you get nervous singing in front of people?” 

“It’s just Zayn.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, right. Okay.” Then he stands up and walks out of the room, and Harry doesn’t know why, but he feels like he did something wrong.


	17. Disconnected (Fighting the Urge to Purge)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear eventually this story will actually have a happy chapter. (; xox

They fall into somewhat of a routine the rest of January. On the days that they work, Harry and Louis get up, get ready, go to work and then come home and veg out in front of the television with Liam, watching Skins or Doctor Who or Friends, sometimes a movie. Zayn joins them frequently. One night Niall tags along and afterwards he becomes a permanent fixture in their life. It’s hard not to want Niall around all the time, though; Harry can see why everyone likes him.

The days that they don’t work, they sleep in, and Harry makes breakfast for everyone. Niall comes over every morning that this happens (has decided he’s making Harry move in with _him_ so he can cook for him all the time; “ _You can be my housewife, okay? I’ll be your sugar daddy_.”) He always ends up hanging out with them for the rest of the day. Zayn usually comes over, too, because most days he doesn’t have to go into work until the afternoon.

It gets to the point that the five of them are always hanging out. On the weekend they go out to Niall’s pub and later some club or party he’s been invited to. They don’t go out on Sunday night, because that was about the stupidest thing ever (and Liam gives them all evil eyes like _look at your life, look at your choices_ ).

They almost always hang out at Louis and Harry’s apartment – though why, Harry doesn’t understand; they don’t have a lot of furniture, and while they do have a pretty good selection of movies, they’re bound to run out eventually. They also have no cable. Whenever a game is on or something one of the boys wants to watch; X-Factor, Next Top Model, they crash at Niall’s flat.

Niall’s apartment is nothing like Harry expected. There’s about as much furniture in the two rooms as Harry and Louis have in their own apartment. It’s all hardwood floors and open space – the living room, kitchen, and eating area all one room, and then there’s the bedroom and a bathroom. Niall’s got a huge telly though and pretty much every video game known to man, so they end up there frequently, trying to beat each other at FIFA.

 

Harry wakes up early on the morning of his birthday to the smoke detector going off in the kitchen because Liam and Louis had been trying to make him breakfast.

They end up eating soggy cereal.

That night they all go out and get drunk, pretty much just like any other night. The entire focus is on _Harry_ and finding someone hot for him to hook up with, which is what Zayn’s usually doing anyway except now Niall’s loudly proclaiming to the people near them that Harry deserves birthday sex.

He gets plenty of offers from girls and guys (and older women) but turns them all down.

At the end of the night - morning by now - they’re all laid out on the floor in the living room, minus Niall who called dibs on the couch. Friends’ reruns are running in the background and Harry gets up to go to the bathroom. On the way back he runs into Louis, who he guesses is up to do the same. The older boy grabs his hand and squeezes for a second. It sends electricity through Harry’s body; he has to hold back a shiver at the contact, has forgotten how long it’s been since they’ve really touched.

“Happy Birthday, Hazza,” is all Louis says, and then he’s walking past him.

It’s not the first time he’s said Happy Birthday to him that day, and it’s not even his birthday anymore technically, but this feels different. For some reason, after he’s laid down, with Zayn’s arm thrown across his waist, Harry can’t get the way Louis looked at him, all sad but genuine, out of his head.

He doesn’t sleep.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“He looks at me like I’m not good enough to be friends with his best friend.”

He’s in his weekly Saturday session with Cynthia. She’s a lot nicer than he had originally thought. During the first session, which was just a basic rundown of everything Harry’s been through, he had been very uncomfortable and nervous, not knowing what to expect. She had kept asking him question after question, trying to get him to lay everything out on the table. She’s tough with him, doesn’t let him make excuses, and quickly got him to tell her things he’s never told anyone, not even Louis, things he didn’t even know about himself.

They had made a list of all the things Harry wanted to accomplish in the sessions, ranging from his self-esteem and fighting the urge to purge, to his inability to let things go. When she asked him what kind of things he wanted to let go of he had said, “Everything,” everything with his step-dad and his biological dad, the confusion and anger he feels towards Louis, the fact that Liam makes Harry feel like he’s never going to be good enough.

“I’m not mad at him or anything,” Harry says quickly; he hadn’t meant for that small detail about Liam to slip out. That's what happens with Cynthia, though; he should be used to it by now. “I _know_ I’m not good enough for Louis, but every time I look at Liam it’s like I’m reminded of the fact all over again.”

“You think maybe it’s all a misunderstanding?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I think Liam’s in love with Louis, and he’s just being jealous.” He huffs out a breath and starts speaking quickly, everything coming out in a rush. He leans forward in his seat. “Louis doesn’t like me though, he made that clear! So shouldn’t Liam be happy? He doesn’t need to look at me like I’m some stupid kid with a crush.”

Cynthia 'uh-huh's, hums a little, and nods her head. “I think this is something you should talk to Liam about. And I think we really need to talk about why you feel so undeserving of all your friends.”

They go back and forth like this for the rest of his hour, getting to the point where Harry doesn’t want to talk or even _think_ about Liam or Louis or _anything_  anymore. Liam had left earlier that morning to head back to Manchester for classes, and the look he had given Harry before walking out the door still irked him.

(Deep down he wonders if Liam knows, if he knows about the things Harry has done to himself in the past – still sometimes does to himself when everything gets to be too much – and if that's the reason why he's always so disapproving. Or if Liam just feels he needs to claim Louis as his own, mark his territory or something.)

It’s on his mind so much that he’s mostly dazed when he gets back to the flat, only half-listening to Louis ask what they should do for dinner. He thinks he responds but next thing he knows he’s in the bathroom, door locked, leaning over the toilet. His hand is already up, his finger reaching for his mouth. He freezes and takes a staggering step back.

_How did he get here?_

A knock on the door has him jumping out of his skin.

“Harry,” Louis says, “Zayn and Niall are here. Think we’re gonna order in.”

He nods his head, only half-aware of what he’s doing, and it isn’t until Louis knocks again that Harry says, “Yeah, alright. Sounds good.” He splashes some cold water on his face and leaves the bathroom as fast as he can.

~*~*~*~*~ 

He comes to the conclusion that Zayn is his new best friend; later that week, when Harry’s trying really hard not to mope around, Zayn gives him a once over and says, with the tiniest bit of sympathy, “Mate, maybe you just need to move on, yeah? Get yourself a rebound, or a boyfriend, or _something_.”

And so Harry decides to give dating a shot.

 

It’s really not much at first; Zayn hooks him up with a coworker; Niall introduces him to a fellow bartender; they both point out possible candidates wherever they go. None of them last more than a single date. He’s pretty sure that’s partly his own fault; he’s grown up watching Disney movies and rom-com’s and believes that there needs to be some kind of spark – also he’s comparing everyone to Louis and well. There’s really no comparison to begin with.

One Friday, nearing the end of February, Louis approaches him while Harry’s making dinner. They usually go out Friday nights, even if it’s just to hang out at Niall’s pub, but they’re all knackered and have decided to have a One Tree Hill marathon on Netflix instead.

Harry’s making breakfast for dinner, because that’s what Niall wanted, and even _he_ can’t turn down the boy. Louis comes into the kitchen and starts getting out plates and silverware.

“So there’s this guy that I’ve met a couple times at the theater.” Louis’ voice is quiet, but casual; obviously trying very hard to come across like this is just any other conversation.

Harry’s eyes go blurry for a second, he forgets to blink, and he stares very hard at the eggs he’s in the process of scrambling. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Louis is about to tell him he’s got a date. He’s already trying to come to terms with _him_ dating; he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle _Louis_ dating too.

Surprising him though, Louis says, “I think you’ll really like him. He works in the music business or something.” He shrugs. “I’m not sure. You guys have a lot in common though, so if you want, I can give him your number.”

Harry blinks and transfers the eggs to a plate. He nods. “Yeah, alright.”

Louis smiles. It’s small, but it’s there. “Great.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

His name is Jeremy and his father owns a record label. It’s the first thing Harry learns when he meets the boy for lunch on Tuesday. The second is that he’s got a thing for boys with curly hair. (Later he learns that Jeremy is eighteen, in his first year of college, and likes to play piano.) He’s got brown hair and brown eyes hidden behind glasses, a beanie over his head and he’s wearing tight skinny jeans. 

The lunch goes by quickly and smoothly. They talk; they laugh; they flirt. The conversation stays on music a lot, because that’s the main thing they have in common (also Harry Potter) and Harry blurts out that he’s dabbled in songwriting when the topic comes up.

He doesn’t know _why_ he says it, because he’s only ever told Louis and Gemma really, but Jeremy smiles like he already knew anyway so Harry makes a mental reminder to not talk to Louis _ever again_.

“Are you any good?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head and chuckles quietly. “No, not really. I mean, I’ve put some stuff up on the internet and people seem to like it, but.” He shrugs. “I’m kind of an amateur.”

And then Jeremy looks him up on tumblr.

On his phone.

In the middle of their date.

“You’ve got potential.” His eyes are still on his phone. “I might be able to get you a job actually,” he says. “I know a couple companies that are looking.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, slides a business card across the table when he’s found it.

Harry stares down at it and laughs a little, scratches the side of his head nervously. “Should you be recruiting for your competition?” he jokes.

Jeremy brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “It’s not actually a record label. It’s for a music publisher. Basically you write songs and they sell them. Sometimes you get hired to work for a label, writing alongside artists and bands.”

Picking up the card, Harry wonders what it would be like, writing for a publisher, getting his music out there in the world. It’s not really what he expected upon moving to London. He doubts he’s good enough anyways.

He shrugs then nods. “Yeah, okay. What harm could come of it?”

~*~*~*~*~

Saturday is the day of his interview and the first thing he does afterwords, without even thinking his actions through beforehand, is call Louis. He doesn’t bother shuffling through his contacts because he’s had the boy’s number memorized practically since they met.

“Either it went really well or really bad,” Louis says upon answering, skipping all greetings.

“Oh. My. God.” His voice is shaking and he finds a bench to sit on so he doesn’t actually pass out.

Louis’ voice is quiet when he says, “Please tell me it went really well. Do I need to come pick you up?”

There’s something in his voice, sadness maybe that Harry just barely catches on to, and he tries to remember how long it's been since he and Louis have actually had a full conversation that wasn't just ‘how was your day’ or ‘we’re running low on milk.’

“They offered me a job,” he tells him, pushing the guilt down to be dealt with later. “I’m going to write songs! Songs that might end up on the radio. That rockstars and popstars and whatever-stars might sing.” He’s hyperventilating; he’s definitely freaking out.

“Calm down, Hazza. That’s a good thing! I’m proud of you. I told you your songs are good.”

“Wish you were here,” Harry says quietly, like a confession he’s not sure he wants to admit.

Louis doesn’t say anything; there’s just a quiet intake of breath and then a sigh.

Harry curses himself silently.

“Guess you should probably call your boyfriend then, tell him the good news.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Harry to call Jeremy. “Oh, yeah, right.”

They’re silent, the first ever uncomfortable silence between them.

“Anyways, I gotta go. Congrats. Celebratory dinner with the boys later, yeah?”

Harry just nods even though Louis can’t see him. 

“I’ll talk to you later.”

Harry keeps his phone pressed to his ear long after Louis’s hung up.

~*~*~*~*~

His thoughts haunt him the rest of the week. He moves around like he’s disconnected from his body.

A fight breaks out in the café. Which is weird because the café is the last place a fight would normally break out, but Harry figures he did something in this life or a past one to deserve all this bad karma. The fight is bad enough that Harry’s kind of frozen in place, unsure of what to do and feeling completely overwhelmed. He's the only one working, too, his other two coworkers having left for a quick lunch break. He figured it would be fine, an hour by himself, what could happen?

He should've known better.

People are yelling around him, at him, and it looks like the two customers are about to start throwing punches. 

Niall walks in though, like some kind of superhero or guardian angel Harry didn’t know he had. He takes one look at the crowd and yells at everyone to _shut the fuck up_ and even though Niall is actually kinda small they listen because it’s Niall and everyone listens to Niall.

He helps Harry out behind the counter the rest of the lunch hour, talking to the customers so Harry doesn’t have to and making jokes that ease some of the tension that’s built up inside his muscles. At one point he even reaches up and ruffles Harry's curls in a way that makes the younger boy wonder what he ever did to deserve best friends like him.

~*~*~*~*~

He and Jeremy date for a couple more weeks.

There’s nothing overly spectacular about their time together; Jeremy’s amazing and all – comes to see him sometimes while he’s at work, brings him coffee and takes him out to expensive restaurants with entrees Harry can’t pronounce. He’s hilarious and just the right amount of cocky. He’s also _extremely_ good looking (though, really, his arse has got _nothing_ on Louis') and well put together, but Harry’s just not feeling it. He keeps pushing, keeps trying, thinking it’ll happen, but he can’t see them as being anything more than friends.

He feels a little guilty about it, too, ‘cause Jeremy’s a really great guy and it’s thanks to him that Harry’s working as a staff writer for a semi-popular music publishing company.

 

It all falls apart one Friday evening and Harry hates himself a little for not ending it the second he knew their relationship wasn't going anywhere.

There’s a problem with their dinner reservations, so they stay in and listen to music and laugh and it's great, _really_. At one point, though, Jeremy reaches over and places his hand on Harry's knee and squeezes.

 _It's innocent_ , he tells himself, it's _just a hand_. But next thing he knows, they're making out on the couch and Jeremy's on top of him, unbuttoning Harry's shirt. And Harry can't think or breathe.

(And there are memories, memories of dark sleepless nights, not enough light coming in through his blinds from the street lamps outside, and the near-silent creaking of the floorboards in the hallway, his bedroom door opening just enough for one person to slip through. There are flashes of cold fingers on his skin, pulling down his pajama pants, pressing and taking whatever they can get. And finally a deep, husky voice in his ear that says, "You're gonna shut up and take it.")

It's all too much, so Harry does the one thing he never could do before - he pushes Jeremy off and shakes his head no.

 

When he comes home after the ‘date’ he’s on edge and shaking. His thoughts are all over the place, and he’s not one hundred percent sure how he made it home in one piece. 

Louis is on the couch. His glasses are on the edge of his nose and he’s got one of his school text books open in front of him. (If it were any other time Harry would make a joke and probably tease Louis for studying because this is Louis they’re talking about and he never studies unless there’s a test coming up.)

“Welcome home. Have a good time?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Just turns and shuts the door, spends a couple seconds trying to get the lock in place with his jittery fingers.

“Harry?”

When he turns around, Louis is standing there. The older boy’s eyes go wide and he takes a step forward. Harry takes a step back though, pressed against the door, shaking his head.

“Don't . . . I  _can’t_. I tried. He wanted to . . . he almost . . . but I couldn’t, Lou, I couldn’t. It’s never going to -” He can’t think, can’t speak. What if it never goes away? What if he can never be close to anyone? What if his step-father broke a piece of him that can never be fixed?

Louis takes another step forward. Harry wants to say _don’t touch me_ but then Louis’ hands are on his, leading him to the couch, and Harry finds he can breathe just a little easier.

When Louis sits down on the couch he pulls Harry down next to him. Automatically the younger boy tries to curl in on himself, wrapping his arms around his legs and pulling them to his chest, but Louis wraps an arm around him.

Giving in, he drops his head onto Louis’ lap and the older boy cards a hand through his hair.

“I kept seeing him.” Harry’s eyes are wide, probably red-rimmed from refusing to blink, and he can barely see a foot in front of him. “Every time I close my eyes, he’s all I see.”

“Shhh, it’s okay.” Louis runs another hand through his hair. “He’s never going to hurt you again, Hazza. _No one_ is ever going to hurt you again.”

It isn’t until Louis presses his lips to his curls that Harry finally lets himself cry.

 

They ignore the world the next day, don’t leave the apartment or even change out of their sweats. Harry doesn’t know what Louis said to the boys or even if he talked to them, but no one comes knocking at their door.

They lay on the couch all day watching a wide range of movies. The only time Harry really speaks is around mid-afternoon, and that’s only to argue with Louis about whether Rose is a bitch or not for letting Jack die.

(Spoiler alert: she totally is.)

The next day Louis takes him to his therapy appointment, where Harry stays an hour and a half longer than usual.

He kind of expects everything to change after that, but it doesn’t. He and Louis learn to be in the same room together. They can laugh and joke and tease each other, but it’s not the same.

Harry doesn’t think it will ever be the same.


	18. Drowning (All He Ever Needs)

It’s the middle of March and Harry’s brushing his teeth, going through a mental checklist of everything he has to do that day, when the doorbell rings.

For a minute Harry's not even sure it actually is the doorbell (maybe it's on the telly or their neighbors’ doorbell) because their doorbell _never_ rings. Zayn and Niall usually just pound on it until someone opens up; usually it’s unlocked anyways and they don’t even bother.

Harry looks out of the bathroom and stares at the door for about three minutes – listens to a couple more tentative knocks – before he walks down the hall and opens it up, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and slightly dumbfounded look on his face before he even realizes who it is standing on the other side.

Liam has his fist raised in the air like he's about to start knocking again. His face is a little flushed and his eyes are wide. Harry barely has a chance to take in the numerous bags at Liam’s feet before the older boy says, “I quit.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t understand the joke, because this is Liam they’re talking about, and even though Harry doesn’t know him as well as Louis does, he’s like one hundred and ten percent sure Liam would never quit _anything_. He’s stubborn like that, has a need to prove himself. If someone dared him to go skydiving, he’d probably freak out the entire time, convinced he was going to die, but he would still do it just so he could prove that he could. 

“Huh?” Harry finally asks.

“I quit,” he repeats. “I’ve decided to transfer. So I’m moving to London.” He brushes past Harry, pulling his bags in behind him. “Louis here?”

Harry shakes his head slowly as he turns around. He doesn’t bother shutting the door; Louis said he'd only be gone for a minute. “He’s grabbing something from Zayn’s,” he says, but it comes out all jumbled and unrecognizable because his toothbrush is still in his mouth and he’s trying not to get slobbery toothpaste all over himself.

He can hear Louis’ voice in the hallway though, along with Zayn’s, and a second later the older boy is brushing past him and stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Liam in their living room.

“Liam?” he asks, like he’s not quite sure his eyes are working right.

“I quit,” Liam says for the third time, his voice borderline hysterical. “And I’m kind of freaking out right now, so . . .” he trails off. “Can we just -”

“What do you mean you quit?” Louis asks slowly.

Liam shrugs. “I dropped out. I couldn’t do it anymore. I wasn’t happy. I called my mum up,” he starts wagging his arms around , almost knocking off the lamp on the end table – Louis catches it before it can fall, “. . . and told her she can’t control what school I go to and what major I take anymore. I told her . . . I told her it wasn’t her choice. It’s _my_ life. And I don't want to be a doctor. I don't even like needles!” He’s rambling, clearly uncomfortable. He looks like he’s about five seconds away from crying.

Louis smiles, a little tentative, but reassuring. “It’s okay, Li! Good for you! Happy to have you here.” He pulls the doe-eyed boy in for a hug.

When Harry turns to look at Zayn the dark haired boy’s not smiling, but he's got the brightest look in his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

Liam only stays with them for two weeks before he decides to move in with Niall. Harry doesn’t know _why_ he moves in with Niall – they’ve got more room than him – but he doesn’t ask. He thinks it might have something to do with Harry’s recently acquired bits of grumpiness and how Louis doesn’t seem altogether _there_ most of the time. (They’re a sad bunch, but Harry doesn’t really know how to fix it.)

They all help Liam settle in, buy him food, take him out, make sure his mind is off the fact that he just dropped out of college – which is a really big deal for Liam; he’s never quit anything before and he’s not one to just give up. They also help distract him from the fact that he’s pretty sure his mother hates him. But he wasn’t happy, he was lonely, and his mum was being a control freak, things weren’t working out, so he didn’t know what else to do.

None of them are really surprised when he gets into the same college Louis and Niall attend, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the semester.

Harry can’t stop making fun of how ecstatic Zayn is now that Liam’s back in London with them. He keeps claiming he just _enjoys_ the other lad’s company, but Harry knows he’s lying, recognizes the glint in his eyes whenever the topic of Liam comes up or the boy in question enters the room.

(Zayn thinks Liam’s straight, though, and Harry’s still convinced he has a crush on Louis. So as much as he wishes Liam and Zayn could just get together – really, that would solve _so many_ of his problems – he doesn’t pressure the older boy to do anything about his feelings.)

Two weeks later Liam comes into Louis and Harry’s apartment after his last class of the day, informing them all he _met a girl_ in his English class.

Zayn freezes where he’s sitting next to Harry on the couch, so he tries to pat the boy’s knee to make sure he’s okay. (Later Zayn is all, “ _so what, he has a date, no big de_ _al, I don’t even really like him, he’s just, y’know, stupidly -_  stupidly - _attractive._ ”)

Louis jumps up and asks for every single detail and the smile on Liam’s face drops for a split second – making Harry even more positive (like ninety nine percent sure ok) that Liam’s crush isn’t a figment of his imagination.

It takes everything inside of Harry not to just drag Louis down into his lap or write _mine_ across his forehead. The only thing that actually keeps him from peppering Louis in love bites is the fact that it’s pretty obvious the older boy doesn’t feel the same way about Liam - either that or he’s just a really good actor. (Also he knows he himself has no claim over Louis, but that’s something he doesn’t like to think about.)

Louis convinces Liam to ask her out on a date, though, so that solidifies it for Harry. Liam agrees and before they know it he’s been on three dates with the girl – _Danielle_ – and he brings her home to "meet the folks" as Louis puts it.

Danielle is entirely too perfect for Liam. She’s a dance major and English minor and also editor of the college newspaper. She’s sweet, but there’s a bit of a teasing edge to her, too. She holds Liam’s hands, and runs her fingers through his curls, and laughs at all their ridiculous jokes.

Harry’s pretty sure Zayn hates her. 

~*~*~*~*~

“Come out with me tonight, Harry. It’s _Saturday_! We always go out on Saturdays.”

Shaking his head, Harry tries to usher Zayn out of his bedroom. He has too many things to do to be going out tonight. He has a mountain of homework due Monday and an exam. Plus he’s got to finish this song, and for some reason it’s not coming together like his usual songs do.

“If you keep staring at that piece of paper,” Zayn tells him, “you’re going to go insane.”

“The song isn’t going to write itself, Zayn.”

“Actually, yes, it is. You’ve just got to stop thinking about it. Let’s go.”

Harry frowns. “Why’re you so desperate to go out?”

Zayn shrugs. “Haven’t been out in a while.”

“We went out last week,” Harry argues.

“Yeah, well, that was last week. I need me somethin’ warm to fall asleep to.”

Harry narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You never let your conquests spend the night.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want a bunch of one-night-stand's anymore.”

The fact that his jaw doesn't actually drop to the floor in shock surprises Harry. Zayn is the _last_ person, the last person  _on Earth_ , Harry would expect to want an actual relationship. If anyone were to believe in happily-ever-after’s less than Harry, it would be Zayn. It’s one of their main conversation topic points – Zayn didn’t have a great childhood; his parents split up when he was real young and his mum basically blamed it all on Zayn. Zayn’s told him before, if it weren’t for his sisters, he would have left home a lot earlier than he did.

Harry takes a good, hard, long look at Zayn, noting the tiredness in his eyes, the way his quiff isn’t as perfectly styled as usual.

He gets it then, he really does. He knows exactly what this is, why Zayn’s so desperate to go out and find someone.

Zayn may have said he doesn’t like Liam, but Harry’s not stupid. He knows what _hopelessly head over heels_ looks like because he sees it every morning when he goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He knows what it feels like to want a distraction, someone or something to get your mind off of the one thing you can’t have. When you would rather have a relationship with someone who can’t hurt you rather than pine after someone from afar when you know all it’s going to cause is heartache.

So really there's nothing else Harry can do expect nod his head and stand up and give Zayn exactly what he needs.

“Alright then, mate, let’s go.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

It becomes a regular thing; just like when Harry was looking for dates, he starts pointing out boys and girls that he thinks Zayn would like, getting phone numbers and talking to people at work. It’s a little harder because Zayn _really_ doesn’t do relationships or dates – thinks they’re pointless and has never seen proof that _forever_ _happily ever after_ really exists. (Whereas Harry just _tells_ everyone that he doesn’t believe in love to hide the fact that he’s worried he’ll end up alone for the rest of his life, never good enough for anyone.) It’s easier at the same time because Zayn is way too attractive for his own good and basically has boys and girls lining up for a chance to date him.

One girl in particular stands out. She’s blonde, not too short, with giant eyes. Harry initially goes over there to talk to her for himself, but ends up introducing her to Zayn. The two hit it off immediately and when Harry hears her teasing Zayn that she _doesn’t kiss on the first date_ he figures his work is done.

 

Louis leans up against his door frame that night, humming to himself while Harry gets ready for bed. 

“That’s nice what you did for Zayn,” Louis says. “Finding him a date and such.”

Harry shrugs, doesn’t think it’s a big deal; they all did it for him in his time of need. That’s what friends are for.

“Gonna hook Niall up next?” he asks jokingly.

Harry laughs a little. “Yeah, maybe. Could open up my own matchmaking business.”

“You’d be a triple-threat,” Louis chuckles, “song-writing, cooking, and matchmaking.”

Harry nods. “Should print up my own business cards.”

They stand there for a little bit, still laughing some. When it dies down Harry realizes they haven’t had a moment like this in a long time. And maybe that’s completely his fault, he doesn’t know, but every time he thinks about mending things – however possible that might be – he can’t help but wonder if he’s even done anything wrong.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry comes out of his bedroom early one Saturday morning to see Zayn, Perrie, and Niall lounging in the living room. He’s in the process of rubbing his eyes to try and wake himself up more fully, and so it takes him a moment to remember he’s only wearing boxer briefs and the hoodie he threw on just a couple seconds ago. He hasn’t known Zayn’s girlfriend that long, so he thinks maybe he should go put on some pants – and maybe at least zip up his hoodie - but then Niall’s catcalling and Perrie’s laughing and batting her eyelashes at him overdramatically.

“Oh, Harold, so sexy. Are you trying to seduce me?” she questions in mock-horror.

He nods, and his tone is serious when he says, “That was my intention, obviously. Is it working?”

“Completely. You should go put some more clothes on before I jump you.” She winks.

Harry laughs; he knew he liked her for a reason. “I should go change before you forget you have a boyfriend.” He doesn’t go change, but he does zip up the hoodie over his bare chest, _over his scars and stomach that he still wishes was a little more flat_.

Zayn snorts. “Like she could forget,” he says in a half-assed attempt at sounding suggestive. He’s practically draped across Perrie, though, seems to be half-asleep.

“Boyfriend? Who? Zayn? What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She taps her chin with one of her long, manicured fingers.

“How come you never flirt with me like that?” Niall pouts.

“Because, Niall, you are too innocent; I’m afraid I’d corrupt you.”

Harry, Zayn and Niall both snort at that. Zayn sits up a little, eyebrows raised. “Niall? Innocent? You must be new here.”

“Speaking of myself,” Niall says, focusing his gaze on Harry, “go make me some breakfast.”

“Maybe that’s why she doesn’t hit on you,” Harry points out. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

Niall grins widely. “I have _needs_ , Hazza.”

The use of Louis’ nickname for him causes Harry to freeze up a little. When Niall gives him an odd look he just asks, “How did you guys get in anyway?” He glances around, wondering if Louis’s up already. That rarely happens; Harry’s always the first one up. He’s surprised Niall and Zayn were even up before he was.

Niall’s grin turns to a frown. “I may have stolen your key and got it copied before returning it to your lanyard.”

Harry shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

There’s a knock on the door and he’s not sure if he’s shocked or not when he opens it to find Liam and Danielle on the other side.

“Did I agree to make everyone breakfast without realizing it?” he asks no one in particular.

Liam smiles apologetically, but Danielle just grins up at him. “No, but that sounds like a good idea.” She presses a kiss to his cheek before skirting past him into the apartment.

“Some help would be nice,” Harry hints, watching as Liam and Danielle make themselves comfortable on the couch. He doesn’t miss the way Zayn curls into Perrie automatically.

The blonde starts running her fingers through his hair. “I’d help, but I’m shit at cooking.”

“I can’t cook either!” Danielle laughs a little, like this is something they have in common so it should help them . . . bond. Danielle and Perrie _do_ seem to get along for the most part, but he can tell Perrie’s picked up on the way Zayn always seems more distant around Liam and her, so that’s gotten in the way of them becoming bff’s or whatever it is that Danielle’s always aiming for.

“None of you are good for anything.” Harry groans. “Why are you here again?”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Harry spins around to see Louis leaning against the wall that leads off to the hallway. He’s still in his pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. Harry looks away instantly; blaming it on the fact that he’s just jealous Louis can walk around comfortably without a shirt on. “Be nice to our guests, Haz.”

“Did you plan this without telling me?” he asks, gesturing towards the group in their living room fighting over what to watch on the telly.

Louis laughs and shakes his head. “I wish.” He skips into the room and grabs the remote out of Niall’s hands, saying something about it being _his_ television, so _he_ gets to pick what they watch. He doesn’t even look up when he says, “When’s the food going to be ready?”

Harry groans again and buries his face in his hands. 

~*~*~*~*~

Cher joins them for breakfast too, because Niall complains the air is too couple-y and he needs someone to cuddle with. Harry points out that he has no one to cuddle with, but Niall just gives him this look like he’s stupid and gestures towards Louis like _duh_.

Harry tries to focus on cooking instead of thinking about how long it’s been since he and Louis actually _cuddled_.

He doesn’t miss it, he really doesn’t.

So they all hang out and eat breakfast, then Zayn’s pulling out one of Harry’s guitars and playing it. Niall starts singing along obnoxiously to the song – it’s one of Harry’s, sung by the duo that won X-Factor, and is constantly on repeat on the radio. They all join it, but it’s mostly just them trying to see who can sound the most annoying and making fun of Harry.

Perrie takes the guitar and starts singing for real and then Cher joins in, and Danielle pouts a little because she, apparently, isn’t a good singer. Liam pulls her up though and they start dancing, and Danielle’s _definitely_ a good dancer. She moves across the room with ease and starts showing Liam some moves, and he, well, he’s not a half-bad dancer either.

Harry’s only barely paying attention to the conversation, because his eyes are on his guitar – he doesn’t really ever let anyone touch it; Zayn was okay, but seeing it in Perrie's hands makes his stomach feel funny. He’s overly attached to that guitar, and he’s not sure if he trusts her yet.

She catches him watching (half-glaring, really) and laughs, promising she won’t break it.

“If you break it,” he tells her, “you’re buying me a new one.”

“And I’m not paying for it, because I’m broke as hell,” Zayn jokes.

Someone decides that they should have a movie night (or day?) and then Louis’s telling Harry to go out and get some junk food, and next thing he knows, him and Zayn are in the car, and Zayn’s driving down the road, rambling on about Perrie _this_ and Perrie _that_ and _I bet Danielle doesn’t . . ._ and really, he doesn’t want to hear this.

They separate when they get to the market – Zayn’s getting the alcohol (because apparently _what’s a movie night without getting drunk off your arse?_ ) and Harry loads up on food. He finds himself automatically picking out food he knows Louis would want and has a miniature meltdown where he shoves everything Louis would want back on the shelf and gets everything Louis hates, and then changes his mind and goes back to getting all of Louis’ favorites.

When he’s pretty sure he’s past the point of mentally insane, he starts wondering around the shop, trying to get his mind on something else.

He finds himself in the housewares and cookware section for some reason, stopping randomly in the middle of an aisle. It takes him a couple minutes to realize why he stopped and what exactly he’s staring at.

There’s a long line of scales filling up half the aisle, just sitting there all innocently, like they have no clue how much they’re torturing Harry just by existing. For some reason Harry’s fingers start twitching. He wants to grab one, wants to open it up right there and see how much he weighs because it’s been _so_ long and he knows he’s gained weight. Sure, he’s gotten better at ignoring the voice inside his head that tells him he needs to eat less or needs to throw up his dinner (and the slates not completely clean when it comes to that) but right now it’s louder than ever, more persuasive than ever. He grabs one at random and hurries to the front of the store, checking out and paying for everything before Zayn can join him.

Zayn stares at the bags in confusion for a moment before Harry explains, “I figure since you have to buy the liquor, I’d buy the snacks,” and he hopes the other boy can’t see the white box in one of the bags and if he does, doesn’t think anything of it.

Zayn just shrugs and nods like that makes sense and checks out.

Then they’re on their way back to the flat and Harry’s trying to ignore the guilt eating him up inside.

 

Harry hides the scale in the back of his closet and puts it out of his mind for the rest of the night.

 

The scale stays in the back of his mind for the next few weeks. He doesn’t use it, doesn’t open it, doesn’t even go near that part of his closet. Every time he reaches for another crisp though, it’s there, reminding him, and every time he takes a swig of regular pop instead of diet, it’s like an alarm goes off in his head.

So he skips lunch nearly every day, and then breakfast and dinner when he can, and tells himself he’s just losing a little weight, that he’s got it under control this time, and it won’t end up with him on his knees in front of the toilet like it has so often before.

He doesn’t think he’s being obvious, he and Louis don’t hang out as often anymore, but the older boy watches him carefully – always has, if Harry’s being honest with himself. He eats a little more in front of Louis, just to make the other lad happy, and tells himself that it’s all okay, that everything’s going to be alright.

He lies to Cynthia, tells her he’s doing great, and he thinks she can see right through him, but she says nothing, so he must be better at this than he thought. He misses a couple sessions here and there, though, ignores a couple of her phone calls, and starts drowning himself in self-hatred.

~*~*~*~*~

He’s tossing and turning in bed one night, can’t sleep. Louis didn’t make him a cup of tea – that’s what he blames it on, because Louis always makes him tea before bed and that’s always been what helps him go to sleep.

Really all he can think about is the scale though. It feels like his closet is calling out to him, haunted by that stupid fucking scale. So he gets up, grabs it and goes to the bathroom. He takes it out of the box, sets it on the ground, and stares at it for no less than fifteen minutes. He turns, makes sure the door is locked, and then steps on.

And it’s too much. He knew he gained weight, but he didn’t realize _how much_. Louis kept telling him he looked so much better, so healthy. But how can he look better when this is how much he weighs?  He stares down at his body, then at the numbers on the scale, and back again. He feels everything in his stomach churning – which doesn’t make sense, because there’s _nothing_ in his stomach – and when he throws up it’s mostly stomach acid.

He’s shaking, his vision’s blurry, but he reaches for the box that he knows is under the sink, not even bothering to get up off the floor. The box has got odds and ends in it, bathroom supplies he doesn’t use anymore and extra batteries. Taped to the lid though is exactly what he’s looking for.

He pulls the razor blade into his fingers and can’t help the near silent sigh of relief. It’s like nothing matters anymore. This right here is the answer to all his problems. He doesn’t have to worry about his weight or what’s going on with Louis, doesn’t have to think about his job or Uni. He’s about to get back what little control he ever had over himself.

He sinks it into his skin to ignore the _I can’t believe you’re doing this after everything you’ve been through, after all the work you put into getting better_ and there’s a stinging, surprise, _fuck_ pain – he hasn’t done this in a while, didn’t remember how much it hurts. He does it again and again and then one more time when there’s banging on the door and he jumps in surprise, the razor blade accidentally sliding across his wrist.

The razor falls to the floor and he stares at the cut he unintentionally made – too deep, deeper than the others – and listens to Louis’ voice saying, “Harry? What’re you doing in there?” Usually Harry would make some remark like _curing cancer, solving world hunger_ because _really_ what does Louis _think_ he’s doing in the bathroom? But now he understands why Louis's always asking, why he’s always knocking on the door when Harry’s been in there for far too long.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis repeats.

Frantically, he grabs the roll of toilet paper and wraps it around his cuts, pulls down the sleeve of his jumper and thanks God that it’s a little chilly tonight. He hides the razor blade and scale, and then opens the door, moving to brush past Louis. He knows that there’s a good chance Louis is going to see the scale hidden under the sink eventually and say something about it, but Harry figures he’ll deal with that when the situation arises.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” he says, heading for his bedroom.

Louis grabs onto his wrist and Harry flinches, stopping immediately and pulling his cut arm to his chest habitually. It’s a stupid mistake and Louis’ eyes widen in surprise and suspicion automatically.

“I’m sorry,” Harry’s apologizing before Louis’s even rolled up his sleeve and unwrapped the toilet paper from his cuts. Louis stares down at the four thin bleeding lines, his eyes looking a little glazed over like he thinks he might be dreaming or imagining them.

He's never seen Harry like this. He's seen Harry skip a meal and, despite how hard he tries to hide his bad habits, Harry knows a time or two Louis's heard him force all the food out of his stomach. He's seen the scars and he's seen Harry in the hospital, but he's never seen him like this, broken, empty, with a bloody wrist. 

Harry starts apologizing again, unshed tears blurring up his vision.

Louis just shakes his head, tells him it’s okay in that soothing tone he’s always used, and leads him back into the bathroom. Harry sits back down on the closed toilet seat and Louis goes about cleaning up the cuts, pulling out the first aid kit to help assist him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Did you eat today?” is all Louis asks.

Harry shrugs.

“Have you been taking your medicine?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I tried, I did. I just . . . I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Shhh,” Louis says, running a hand through Harry’s curls. “I know. It’s okay. It’s alright.” He finishes up; Harry’s cuts are all hidden underneath gauze and medical tape. Louis kneels down in front of him and brushes the curls off of Harry’s forehead that have stuck there thanks to the sweat building on his body. “Let’s get you into bed,” he says, and Harry nods.

Louis makes him tea and just when Harry thinks the older boy is going to leave him _all alone_ Louis climbs onto the bed next to him. They don’t really talk about anything; Louis just tells him about his day and one of his annoying coworkers. Harry manages to chuckle a little while he sips his tea and when he’s done he curls in close to Louis, wrapping himself around the smaller boy like an octopus, reluctant to let go.

He was wrong; he missed this, he’s really missed it.

“You’re really important to me, Harry,” Louis says. Harry nods, because he knows. “No, _really_. I don’t want to lose you and I don’t want to lose what we have. And I know I’ve said some shit things and I’m sorry. You're the most important person to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.” He kisses the top of Harry’s head. “It breaks my heart to think about you hurting yourself.”

Harry squeezes Louis closer, murmuring promises about how he’ll try harder and how sorry he is into Louis’ skin. Louis starts drawing patterns onto his skin like he always does.

It may not be a lot, or definable, what they have; but he knows their kisses are never going to be _just kisses_ and their hugs will never be _just hugs_. It’ll always mean a little bit more when he holds Louis’ hand or curls up next to him. They may not be dating and Louis may not love Harry like Harry loves him, but they have a part of each other that no one else will ever have.

And Harry thinks it’s probably enough. If he can have this, the late night cuddles and secret kisses, then he’ll be just fine; it’s all he ever needs.


	19. All Cause of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told you there would be a happy chapter eventually xoxoxox

Niall, Liam and Louis attempt to make breakfast the next morning while Zayn and Harry lay half-asleep on the couch, cuddled up next to each other.

Harry’s glad it’s just the five of them for once; ever since Liam started dating Danielle and Zayn started dating Perrie the girls are always around, and it’s rarely just them boys.

He’s still wearing his jumper from the night before, and he’s freezing cold, so he gets as close to Zayn as he can, soaking up the other boy's warmth. Zayn automatically wraps an arm around him, rubbing a hand up and down Harry’s arm.

There’s lots of noise coming from the kitchen, banging and hollering and cussing, and when the three other boys are finally finished, ninety nine percent of the food is burnt. What isn’t burnt is divided amongst them.

The plate Louis brings Harry is filled with smaller portions and there’s a cup of tea to go along with it. Louis sets the food down in front of him as if to say _it’s there if you want it but you don’t have to eat it_. And Harry really does want it; his stomach is growling, and he can’t remember the last time he had a real meal. But at the same time, he knows he’ll probably regret it if he eats it.

Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s non-bandaged wrist though, applying just a little bit of pressure, and smiles at hm. “I hope you know how proud of you I am,” he whispers, not loud enough for the other boys to hear, his lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear. “You’ve done really well.”

Harry smiles weakly and nods.

And then he picks up the plate and takes a bite.

~*~*~*~*~

Later that day they’re lounging around Niall’s flat. Zayn and Niall and Louis are playing some video game on Niall’s Wii, and Liam and Harry are on the couch. There’s a wide gap of space between the couch and the television because Niall always pushes any furniture out of the way when they play; one of them is always prone to get violent, and someone almost always gets hit in the head.

Harry’s cuddled up against Liam because he’s still so very cold – he doesn’t know when it happened or why, but it seems Louis’ clinginess has passed onto all of them; they’re pretty much always touching. When he looks up, Liam’s eyes are on Louis.

He catches Liam looking at Louis a lot, mostly because he actively seeks it out and partly because Liam's rarely _not_ looking at Louis. This time, though, there’s something different in Liam's gaze. He’s not as sad, and he’s not making obvious heart eyes. He’s just kind of smiling fondly and shaking his head like _I can’t believe I’m friends with this fucker_. Harry knows the look well.

“Do you still like him?” he asks quietly, looking away from the older boy's face.

His arm is wrapped around Liam’s middle and Liam’s arm is wrapped around Harry’s shoulder so he can feel it when the boy freezes. “How did you know?” he asks slowly.

Harry laughs a little. “Because I know what Louis’s like and I know how hard it is _not_ to like him. I’d be surprised if Niall and Zayn didn’t have man crushes on him, and they’re _straight_.”

 _For the most part_ , he amends in his head. Niall told him he was straight, at least, but then went on and on about there being a couple boys he _probably_ wouldn’t kick out of bed. (Like, " _Adam Levine, hot damn, have you heard him sing?_ ") And Zayn, well. Harry likes to think of Zayn as Liam-sexual.

Liam squeezes him a little closer. “Does anyone else know?” Harry shakes his head and Liam visibly relaxes. “It’s not – y’know – it’s better now, now that I have Danielle. I like her a lot. I mean, at first it was more . . .” Harry nods, letting Liam know he understands, so the older boy shuts his mouth with a slightly-relieved-sounding sigh.

“That’s good. I’m really happy for you, Li.”

The other boys get loud all of a sudden, and someone starts arguing that Niall cheated or something. Liam and Harry stay quiet, watching the exchange with amusement.

When they’ve toned it down (as much as they can at least) and gone back to the game, Harry says, “Louis told me you were straight. I don’t know if he was joking or not, but . . .”

Liam shrugs. “He’s the only guy I’ve ever had a crush on. First _person_ I ever had a crush on, really. Sometimes I think it’s the _idea_ of liking Louis that I like more than actually liking him. We would never work out. It’s taken me a lot time to get that through my head.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t know. They say opposites attract.”

Liam’s laugh surprises him. “Yeah, it would definitely be interesting. That's for sure.”

Louis looks back at them suddenly, eyebrows raised, but there's a smile on his face. Harry doesn't miss the way he takes in the way Harry's practically curled around Liam; his eyes light up just a little, like he approves.

“What would be interesting?”

“If you actually won a game,” Harry answers without missing a beat.

Louis threatens to throw his controller at him, but eventually turns back to the game.

“He’s really fond of you, y’know,” Liam says. "I wasn't kidding when I said he never shuts up about you." 

Harry nods, presses his face into Liam’s chest to hide. “I’m glad we’re all friends.” He sighs a little then. “I thought you hated me,” he admits.

Liam’s grip around him tightens; Harry thinks he’s shaking his head. “Could never hate you, Harry. Was just jealous you got a part of Louis I would never have.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

That night Harry walks into Louis’ room with his guitar and drops down on his bed.

Louis has his glasses on and a textbook open in front of him, doing his homework and studying for the exams he has coming up. He looks up, though, eyebrows raised when he sees Harry’s guitar. Harry hasn’t played for him since the incident in the bathroom nor has Louis asked him to.

“What’s that for?” 

Harry starts strumming and says, “So, basically, it took me a long time to realize it, but I know how much it bothered you that I sang in front of Zayn. And I have no idea why, but I know you like it when I play for you and sing for you. So, basically, erm . . . I want to play you this song I wrote for you.”

Louis’ eyes widen behind his glasses and he drops the paper in his hand. “You wrote me a song?” he asks slowly, each word their own sentence.

He could probably laugh – he’s written Louis like five hundred _million_ songs – but he just nods and starts playing. “I’m sorry if it sucks,” he says before he starts singing, laughing uncomfortably.

This is different, the song he wrote for Louis. The stuff everyone hears on the radio – the few songs of his that have actually made it there – are fabricated. They’re thrown together. They're products. Because that’s what the music industry is all about, he's learned. They don’t care about real talent or, God-forbid, _meaning_ and honesty. All they want is something that sounds good, something that sells. Those songs take him five minutes to write on a good day. They don’t mean anything to him.

Not like this song. Songs he writes for Louis, songs he writes for himself, they all mean something. He puts a part of himself into those songs, a part of his heart, a part of his soul. They take days, weeks, months to write and they keep him up at night, torturing him with their lyrics and melody.

He knows he’s written a good song when he loses sleep over it, when it’s all he can think about, when he finds himself tapping out the beat to it during work or humming the tune while cooking.

He doesn’t look up, too afraid to meet Louis’ stare. He’s never played him a song like this before. It's never meant so much to him.

The tempo increases as he starts playing the chorus.

The song has everything he's ever needed to tell Louis, about changing his life, _saving his life_ , how there's a good chance Harry wouldn't even be here, not just here in London, but _alive_ if it weren't for him.

When he looks up, he’s surprised to see Louis’s taken off his glasses. His eyes are red, like he’s about to start crying or maybe just didn’t get enough sleep. Harry knows if he keeps looking at Louis, he’s going to start crying himself, so he looks back down at his guitar. 

Now he _is_ getting teary eyed; he can feel them trying to escape. He keeps singing though until the very last line.

Even after he's done, he keeps playing a little longer, but finally looks up.

“You wrote that for me?” Louis asks. Harry nods and bites his lip. “It was beautiful.”

Harry sighs, relieved, and relaxes a little. Just when he’s moved his guitar off to the side of Louis’ bed, the boy tackles him and Harry falls backwards. He doesn’t seem to mind though, just holds himself close to Harry.

“I can’t believe you wrote me a song,” he whispers, his face pressed up against Harry’s neck.

“It’s all true, y’know. I meant every word. You really did save me.”

“And you call _me_ a sap,” Louis teases. He sits up again and smiles, his eyes a little watery still. “You know,” he tilts his head to the side, “I think you saved me, too.”

 

They cuddle in Louis’ bed for the rest of the day, unable to stray too far from one another. Louis manages to get some studying down after some prodding from Harry.

He makes some dinner later and they sit in bed eating it. While they eat, they talk, the conversation ranging from this annoying guy who’s the lead in one of the plays the theater is putting on, to how this girl in one of Harry’s cooking classes made her Crème Brule explode. They catch up on the things they haven’t told each other, keep everything lighthearted mostly.

When they’re finished and Harry’s put their dishes on the floor with a promise from Louis that he'll do them later, Louis starts studying again. He mostly just draws invisible pictures on Harry’s skin, though.

“Sometimes I want to hand you a pen, just so I can see what you’re drawing when you do that.” His arms are crossed under his head and he's staring up at the ceiling.

Louis’ face lights up and he reaches across Harry to his desk where there’s a jar of pens and pencils. He grabs a sharpie, uncaps it, and before Harry can say anything, he’s grabbing his arm and writing ‘hi’. He keeps going, drawing stars – his favorite shape, he’s always told Harry – and smiley faces. He draws a penis on Harry’s wrist and after he’s done laughing, starts writing lyrics to some of his favorite songs. Harry recognizes some words to The Man Who Can’t Be Moved and Green Eyes along with some others less familiar and harder to read.

“You better hope I don’t have to go into work tomorrow,” Harry tells him.

Louis just smiles then pouts a little bit when he’s run out of room.

Harry contemplates for half a second and then he’s pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the ground. If it were anybody else, he probably couldn’t do it, but this is Louis.

Louis’ smile widens even more and he leans down to start decorating Harry’s chest with scribbles and random words and lines from songs. He goes over a few of Harry’s scars but neither of them mentions the way Harry's body tightens.

After Louis’s done, he sits up and grabs his phone. He looks at Harry with a question in his eyes. Harry hesitates for a moment, but then nods, so Louis snaps a picture and smiles down at it fondly before shoving him a little and saying, “Now go take a shower!”

He does, because he always does what Louis tells him to do and he needs to take a shower anyways. He manages to scrub off most of the sharpie since it didn’t have long to sit. The ‘hi’ and the star are still on his arm though, the first two things Louis drew. He kind of likes how they look, the dark of the sharpie up against his pale skin, the ‘hi’ written in Louis’ slightly messy handwriting, the perfect evenness of the star.

He doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on, but he does pull on some pajama bottoms over his briefs before he gets back into bed with Louis. The smaller boy curls up next to him and runs his fingers over the ‘hi’ and the star. He kisses the space between them.

“I hope they never ever fade away and you have to walk around with hi and a star on your arm _forever_.”

When Louis sits up on his elbows he’s got a wide smile on his face. He leans forward a little and presses his lips to Harry’s for a moment. Pulling back then, he studies Harry’s face, and must see something good, because he kisses him again, this one lasting longer.

It’s the first _real_ kiss they’ve exchanged in a while, months even, since they moved up to London practically. Harry sinks right into it like he always has – always will probably – tightening his grip on Louis’ waist while the other boy’s hands rest on his chest.

“I missed you,” Louis says, murmuring it against his mouth.

Harry chuckles a little. “I’m right here.”

“Not what I mean.” Harry waits for him to elaborate, to say what’s on both of their minds. Louis sits up a little but doesn't meet his gaze. “I just miss you in general. I don’t like it when you’re gone.”

Harry knows what he means – gone like he gets when he’s lost inside his head, in his thoughts, when he’s mentally and emotionally away from Louis, not necessarily physically. Though he’s sure Louis doesn’t like that either, knows he himself hates it.

“I don’t like it when we’re not talking. I need you, too, y’know,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “It’s not just the other way around.”

Harry takes in a deep breath. “About what you said –”

“I know what I said, Harry. You don't know how sorry I am. If I could take it all back - I didn’t mean to belittle your . . . feelings.” He looks down, starts drawing invisible patters on Harry’s chest again. “I just thought . . .”

“That they would go away?”

Louis shrugs.

“I love you, Louis.” The fingers on his chest freeze. “I will _always_ love you. If I have to spend the rest of my life proving that to you, I will.”

“But you’re –”

“Just seventeen?” The older boy shrugs again, and Harry laughs. He flips them over so he’s leaning over Louis. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think love has an age requirement.” He grins.

Rolling his eyes, Louis shakes his head a little bit and chuckles. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Harry shrugs, “Eh, only a little,” and leans down to kiss him again. “I missed this. I could kiss you forever,” he half-sighs.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Louis tilts his head a little. “That could probably be arranged.”

He leans up a little, wondering if Louis’s really saying what he thinks he’s saying. “Really?”

The older boy laughs and nods. “Yes. As long as you don’t go around kissing anyone else.” He wraps his arms around Harry's neck, interlocking his fingers as if to keep him in place.

He pretends to contemplate it for a minute. “I think I can live with that." He smiles. "Y'know, as long as you don’t kiss anyone else either.”

Louis shakes his head. “Nope. _I_ get to kiss whoever I want.”

“Oh I see how it is. I stay home being all loyal and committed and you go out macking on every cute boy you lay eyes on.”

“Pretty much.” There’s a flash of humor in Louis’ eyes.

Even though he knows Louis isn't being serious, Harry sits up and leans back, moving so they're no longer touching. He doesn’t miss the half-whispered _what, where’re you going_ that comes out of the older boy’s mouth and the way he makes grabby hands, trying to pull Harry back.

“Sorry. That’s not going to work.”

Louis pouts.

“That’s not going to work either.”

“You will be the death of me, I swear,” he groans, covering his eyes with his hand, and then sighs. “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

Louis drops his hand. His eyes are narrowed. “Are you serious right now?” He rolls his head back and laughs. “You really think I _want_ to kiss anyone but you?”

Harry smiles and crawls back up next to him. “No.” He drapes his arm across Louis. “But it’s nice to hear all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's all have a nice lil cry now since all that's left is the epilogue ):


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really short and might seem really fillerish but i think it sums up everything _the one the saves me_ is supposed to be about (e.g. harry + happiness) i'm going to put a mega-long thank you at the end of this, but i know some people won't read it, so just in case, i want to give a massive general thank you to everyone who read this. also for some reason my laptop hates ao3 and crashes everytime i try to respond to comments (unless i do it like ONE at a time and have nothing else open) so replies will be slow.

In the middle of July, after their six-month lease is up, Harry and Louis start looking for a new place to live. It's kind of an unanimous decision. (There's a draft that constantly sends Louis into a sneezing fit and has Harry bundled up in sweaters despite the summer air; their floorboards creak in the middle of the night, and Louis’s like nine hundred percent sure the place is haunted; the freezer likes to randomly stop working; and five days out of ten the toilet doesn't flush.) They love the place of course, but really, it's time to move on. And thanks to Harry’s two paychecks (and Louis’ recent landed role in the local theater's play) they actually have enough money to get a nicer flat.

Harry kind of falls in love with it the second he walks inside; he's not sure if it's the large kitchen (island and new appliances included) or the living room with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the park.

Either way he's hooked in three seconds flat.  

He feels a little guilty for leaving Zayn behind, but the lad just rolls his eyes and tells him to _fuck off_ for dissing his ' _starving artist lifestyle_ _._ ’

(He’s not really a starving artist. He’s sold a couple paintings over the last six or so months and could probably afford a nicer apartment if he really wanted to. But he’s stuck in his ways.)

Even though their new flat has _three_ bedrooms (the third originally intended for Liam so he could move out of Niall’s) Harry and Louis always end up sharing the same bed – usually Harry’s because it’s big enough to fit all five of them and then some.

They ease back into cuddling like they never stopped and it's almost strange for Harry to go too many hours without feeling a hand brush against the back of his own or fingers pushing the fringe off his face.

Louis still makes Harry a cup of tea every night before they go to bed and has gotten into the habit of giving him his pills in the morning and evening to make sure he _actually_ takes him. And despite Harry's promises that he's not a child and can drive himself, Louis accompanies him to his weekly Thursday therapy appointment. 

(He doesn't actually mind. He enjoys the different ways Louis takes care of him.)

Cynthia had welcomed Harry back with open arms, though got on to him for not calling her in his ‘time of need.’

He was ashamed and embarrassed and depressed, but that’s what she’s there for (as she keeps reminding him), to help him through his low points. So when he ends up on the floor of the bathroom one evening, he calls her and they talk for thirty five minutes – free of charge.

Afterwards he goes and has a long talk with Louis which results in the older boy literally tossing the bathroom scale over their balcony.

 

 

Way too early one morning (three or four maybe) they wake up, legs and arms tangled together, in Louis’ bed for once. The smaller boy’s head is resting on Harry’s chest and the younger lad is running his fingers through his hair idly while they lay there. There are glow-in-the-dark stars on Louis’ ceiling, just like back in Doncaster. They put them up the night they moved in. They hadn’t even gotten their beds put together yet, but Louis had dragged in a chair and told Harry to _get to it_ , snapping his fingers when Harry just stared at him like he was ridiculous.

“You started talking in your sleep again last night,” Louis says. There’s an amused tone to his voice.

“Huh? Really?”

Louis nods, yawning a little before he continues. “Yeah, something about a cat.”

Harry chuckles, snuggles in closer to Louis. He remembers vague flashes of his dream. A round, lazy cat welcoming him home. Louis almost tripping over the cat’s tail.

“I want a kitty,” he pouts. “Why don’t we have a kitty?”

“Can barely take care of ourselves,” Louis snorts, “don’t know how well we’d do with a cat.”

He squeezes the older boy closer to him and shrugs. “I think we’re doing just fine.”

 

 

“I have a surprise for you,” Louis says a few days later, giddy and looking like a little kid at a surprise birthday party.

Harry shakes his head and groans. He's pretty sure he mutters something about _no, tired, work, ugh_ but Louis doesn’t listen; of course not, when does he ever listen? The older boy just grabs Harry’s hand, halting his journey to his bedroom, and pulls him out the door and into his car. Next thing he knows, Liam and Niall and Zayn are piling into the backseat, grinning like mischievous little shits.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Where did you all come from?”

“What?” Niall asks innocently. “We’ve been here the whole time. NOW! GO LOUIS GO!”

Louis sings along to the radio as he drives and Harry tries to figure out where they’re going just by their surroundings. When they pull up in front of a building, he has to look around a bit before he spots the ‘Animal Rescue’ sign. His eyes widen.

“Are you seriously going to buy me a kitty?!”

“Actually, they’re free, so -” His voice trails off. “But I’ll buy you a cute little bed for said kitty!”

He shrugs, “Fair enough," and then jumps out of the car. He pulls Louis along behind him and they start hurrying across the car park, with the boys trailing behind them, trying to keep up and yelling obnoxious things about how he’s such a child.

But Harry really doesn’t care.

 

 

That night they’re sitting on Louis’ bed with their new kitten, trying to decide on a name.

“We should name her Garfield,” Louis says, “because she’s orange and so is Garfield.”

“Garfield is a boy’s name.”

“Yeah, well, so.” He sticks out his tongue. "We don't have to succumb to gender norms."

The kitten is small, small enough to fit in Harry’s palms. Nothing like the cat in his dream - not that he minds; the kitty is freaking adorable.

She’s jumping around on the bed, chasing things the two boys don’t see. When she reaches the edge of the bed she crotches down low, with her tail up in the air, like she’s trying to decide whether or not she can jump. Louis grabs her before she can and snuggles her to his chest.

“Don’t smother the poor thing,” Harry says, but he’s laughing.

He pulls the kitty away from his chest and pets underneath her chin. “Baby, baby, baby, little kitty,” he coos.

“We should call her baby.”

“We can’t call her baby,” Louis argues. “That’s what I call you.”

“You have never called me baby before. Ever.”

“Well. I’m going to start. Right now.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “What if we name her Tiger?”

“Tiger,” Louis says, like he’s trying out the name for himself. He sets the cat in his lap and she scampers off again. “Hm. What about Tigger? Then we can get a yellow cat and name him Pooh!” 

Harry snorts a little but nods in agreement. He falls backwards onto the bed and Louis crawls up beside him, resting his head on Harry’s chest.

“I’m really happy.” It’s a simple fact, couldn’t be more true, but he hadn’t realized it until that exact moment. And it kind of hits him in the chest all of a sudden, how _happy_ he is. And he kind of wants to cry because he’s not sure he knows how to be happy or handle being happy, because he’s never really been happy before. Not like this.

“Me too,” Louis says, smiling. “You make me happy.”

Harry rolls his eyes but laughs. “You are such a sap.” Louis’ grin just widens. “You totally are,” Harry continues. “You’re like a clingy girlfriend I can’t get rid of. Except I’m not even getting any sex out of it!”

Louis laughs, says, “Mm, sex? You know, that could be arranged,” and leans up to kiss him.

~*~*~*~*~

When they go to bars or clubs, they’re usually the group that draws everyone’s attention, whether it be the vibe that Niall gives off that has everyone wanting to be a part of their conversation, Zayn’s too-good-to-be-real looks, or Louis’ loud voice and enchanting laugh. There’s always a crowd; they’re never alone; and they’re always on the verge of getting kicked out. (Thankfully, though, they have Niall, so that never really happens.)

(Only a couple of times due to Louis starting some sort of food fight – once even dumping a pitcher of beer down some guy’s back because he’d been an arsehole. And then one time when Zayn got in a fist fight with some dude who’d been hitting on Liam and _wouldn’t let go of his arm_ . . . but they don’t talk about that.)

Things are different right now though. The pub is nearly empty; it’s too early for there to be any real customers. The five of them are at a table in the back, alone, crowded together so they’re practically all on one side. Liam’s head is on the table, his forehead pressed against the wood, and Niall’s got a hand in his hair, massaging gently while Louis squeezes the lad’s shoulder. Harry’s at a loss, doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps glancing between Liam and Zayn. Zayn's had the same look on his face for the past half hour; torn, half wanting to smile, jump for joy, and half wanting to cuddle the boy to death. He does neither.

“I’m sorry,” Niall says. “She didn’t deserve you.”

Liam grunts.

Louis, on the other hand, snorts. “You definitely didn’t deserve _her_. Did you _see_ how fit she was? And _damn_ could that girl dance. She was one of a kind, not gonna find another girl like that no matter how hard you look.”

Zayn and Niall are both staring open-mouthed at Louis, like they can’t believe he’d say these things to his best friend – his best friend who recently found out his girlfriend's been cheating on him. Harry just tries not to smirk; he knows exactly what Louis’s doing. He’s been on the receiving end on multiple occasions. It’s nice to see it happen to someone else for a change.

“God, if I was straight . . . no actually I’d probably give her a go either way.”

Liam sits up suddenly. His forehead looks a little sticky and there’s a small piece of lettuce stuck to it.

“I swear to God, Louis, if you say one more word . . .” his voice trails off as they all break out laughing, unable to take him seriously when he looks like that. “What?”

Niall peels the piece of lettuce off of his forehead. “Where did that even come from?” He stares at it intently for a moment – like maybe it’ll answer – before throwing it over his shoulder.

“Where was I?” Louis asks, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh right. Danielle. Mate, you should’ve seen that coming. Way out of your league, Li.” He clasps Liam on the shoulder, but the younger lad just shrugs him off. Louis gets out of his chair just in time; Liam swipes out for him. In a blink of an eye the pair is up and across the room, chasing each other around the bar and nearly missing running into chairs and empty tables. There’s a moment though, where Louis corners Liam, says something to him quietly, and Liam visibly relaxes.

“Shit,” Niall says. “Can’t believe she did that to him.”

Harry nods. “I know. And _Danielle_ of all people. She seemed so sweet.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, snorts a little, but says nothing.

When Liam and Louis come back, Liam looks around the table expectantly. “Well? Who’s gonna go get the drinks?”

“What?” they all four ask at the same time.

Liam rolls his eyes. “No way in hell am I spending the night sober.”

Zayn chokes out a laugh and Niall says, “Right . . . well I’ll get right on that.” He stands up so fast his chair falls to the ground.

 

By eight o’clock Liam is wasted. He hasn’t even drank that much, but he can hold his liquor about as well as Harry can, and so it doesn’t take long. The rest of them are only mildly buzzed, minus Zayn, who’s been drinking twice as much as Liam, but is only about a third as drunk - which is still, really, pretty drunk.

Someone gets up on stage for a bit of not-so-sober karaoke and Liam stares at the girl wide eyed before turning to Niall. “I wanna do that,” he says, gripping the other boy's polo. “Get me up there, Nialler, I can do that.” He jumps in his seat a little, looking like an overexcited puppy dog.

Louis shakes his head in amusement and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “This should be interesting.” He meets Harry’s curious gaze and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Can he even sing?” Zayn asks as they all watch Niall lead Liam to the stage.

“I don’t know,” Harry says at the same time Louis says, “Hell _yeah_ he can sing.”

Zayn stands up suddenly, a little wobbly, and rests his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I need – I need to not be here right now.” His voice is low, meant for Harry's ears and Harry's alone.

Harry starts to get up right then and there - he knows that tone - but, as if she’s appeared out of thin air, Perrie comes sauntering towards them.

“Hey, love,” she says, pressing a kiss to the side of Zayn’s mouth. “You smell like the inside of a vodka bottle.” She smirks. She’s wearing one of Zayn’s leather jackets and it practically swallows her up. She shrugs out of it and drops into the seat next to her boyfriend.

As Zayn sits back down, he stares at Harry with a look that says _dear God help me_ but Harry doesn’t know what he wants, what he’s supposed to do. He starts to stand up again, reaching for Zayn and about to make an excuse like _need a smoke, yeah?_ _or_ _I need some fresh air_ but it's too late; Liam’s onstage and is tapping the microphone.

“ _Helllllooo_ ,” he says, like he’s trying to be seductive or charming, but he just giggles and it’s all completely ridiculous.

“Oh my God,” Zayn groans, again only loud enough for Harry to hear. “I cannot do this.”

When the beginning notes of On Call by Kings of Leon starts playing, Zayn groans even loader, even mutters a few choice cuss words under his breath.

“ _She said call me now, baby. I come a running._

_She said call me now, baby and I’d come a running._

_If you’d call me now, baby, I’d come a running.”_

Liam is actually a good singer; even though he’s drunk, he’s hitting every note he means to. He’s swaying a bit on stage though and looks like he’s about to come toppling off.

“ _I’m on call to_ _be there, one and all, to be there._

_When I fall to pieces, Lord you know, I’ll be there waiting._

_To be there, to be there._

_I’m on call, to be there, one and all, to be there._

_And when I fall, to pieces, Lord you know, I’ll be there waiting._ ”

He starts doing this little dance, running his hands through his hair, and laughing more than singing. Louis practically falls out of his seat and yells at Niall to _shit, grab your phone and record this_. Zayn’s just staring up a Liam, though, like he’s never seen him before. He turns in his seat and buries his face in Harry’s shoulder.

“I am so fucking screwed.”

And Harry has the decency to feel at least _a little_ guilty for the fact that he really can’t help but laugh at him.

~*~*~*~*~

They don’t go far that night. They all end up upstairs in Niall’s apartment laid out on his floor, but all still touching in some way or another. Arms and legs are intertwined; Harry’s got his head on Zayn’s stomach and his legs in Louis’ lap, and he’s comfortable, thinks it’s quite nice right here with his boys.

Every once in a while one of them will randomly start singing _On Call_ and they all burst out laughing. Liam has to be too drunk to really understand what’s so funny, but he laughs along anyways.

“Good song,” he says. “Good song.”

They fall asleep like that.

When Harry wakes up too early the next morning with sunlight streaming in through the window, Niall’s head is in his lap. They’ve all just kind of dog piled on to each other somehow. It’s kind of weird and he has to move a little bit before he’s comfortable again, but it’s nice and he doesn’t think he’d trade it for the world. 

 

 

 

 

. . . to be continued

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read this, and those who left comments or kudos! Thank you especially to those who found my tumblr and left me cute messages that always spurred me on. (*cough*stylindamnson*cough*)
> 
> I want to thank my beta, who I feel lucky to have found. You're amazing and I hope we keep working together for the next part. I'd love to have your input. x 
> 
> Most of all I'd like to thank [Jess](http://itsalotlikelightning13.tumblr.com). There are no words. I could sit here and talk all day about how much i adore you. But it would get cheesy and make people uncomfortable. And no one is probably reading this anyways. but OMG. I would not have finished this if it weren't for you. There's a lot of things I wouldn't have done if it weren't for you. I am seriously never satisfied with a chapter until I've gotten your approval. Thank you for everything. I love you. xoxoxox 
> 
> (Also thanks to my sister and mom who each did their part to help with this despite never actually having actually read it :P) 
> 
> It really means a lot that so many people read it and enjoyed this (partly because seventy five percent of this is based off of personal experiences and was originally just free therapy.) I wasn't expecting that at all. 
> 
>  
> 
> *I'm going to take a break to just write before posting anything from the next part. I might have some Louis!pov's that I post up before then though.


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